As cinders curl inwards on themselves

As lit cinders curl inward,

You are the round changing edge,

slow-burning tracery,

charcoal-spiral.

I follow you closely along the burn-path,

you are smoke from the edge,

you are cinder ground ash,

you are the curl of the wood as it gives, just now, into fire.

You are smoke-storm racing down the hill, hot path,

water-seeker.

I am black pitch no-sound, whisperer,

quiet-coiled.

You are singed, then waterspun,

dervish-one, molten-borne.

I am cooling bath,

routed-out, muddied-one,

sacred pool, crystal heart,

spark-found. 

elg 2010