None so quicken

Like flames flowing upward
orange and yellow, tickling
a warmth singed by the intensity.

Even after,
your eyes, your smile, puts me on edge,
a quickening I can’t control.
In the cool of the autumn morn
you greet us at the door,
sleepy-eyed and puffy, wrapped
in a fluffy, over-sized robe,
your feet impatient on the cold stone entranceway.
I hesitate, to soak in the image.

The flames do more than flicker:
the flames consume and dance;
not rage, yet uncontrolled with intensity.

In my mind, I reach out
as our sons wrap around you,
becoming enveloped in the safety of your presence.
My eyes sting from the morning sun as I
turn my back and the door closes.

Drifting upward the flames
reach for clouds, tendrils racing
to the heavens, seeking an absolute intensity.

Like crossing a winter pond,
each tentative step leading to the possibility
of falling
through,
I stand on the bank
not wanting to step out, to test the strength, to be tempted
from this comfortable place,
winter swirling about me,
sounds of play broken in the wind.
In place, I am frozen.

Licked by dry flame, my belly consumed;
fire consumes all, a dance,
a marriage of heat and intensity.

Like ice, I, immobile, grounded.
Other eyes I could fall into,
but none so quicken me.



Copyright 2002 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.