An echo in the openness
in the empty field
in my hollow chest
in my barren breath
Coldness.
Along the horizon, fire flushes, but it’s not here,
not yet.
In the stillness, a heart begins to beat
from the ground, into my chest
a quick rhythm, in my breath
Fire flares across our heads
But it’s not here,
Not yet.
Through the air a thrum—of blood and bone and flesh—
Drums the ground
grabs my chest
erratic pulse that takes my breath
The fire's fingers in my stomach,
in the leaves, hooking, pulling, golden beams
Fire almost here, but not yet.
A baiting in the darkness
In the shadows of the trees
In the semblance of our dreams
In the tightness, muscles seize
In my gut, gripped by fire’s will,
The heat of fire that’s not here still.
A straining in the closeness
in my ears, in my core
for a call, a clap, cacophonous slaps
of hands to flesh fill the air – the fire
almost here.
Stomach twisting,
Joints coiling, muscles tensing
Heart! Breathe! Will! A call to arms — Crack.
Something snaps.
Around the bend,
Around the curve,
Along the stretch
I feel the burning, burning, burning
About to give, about to break,
Pulling over the hill, finally, the finish line—
The fire’s place.