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The Fireblossoms

Locked in the cold restlessness of the winter season
Lies the heat of a light, born of the long-past
And drifting harvest moon, and of the fireblossom sun
That blooms in the summer-time haze.
It makes slow progress through ice-storms
And frigid sheets of sleet and rain.
In a dark chasm, fragile shards of light
Seek light so that the spring can come again,
And everyday I seek an hour or a minute
To shine with you.
We'll burst through bulky nimbus clouds, and
Hordes of striated cirrus,
And stride upon the barren wastelands
Of the Siberian plains, upon the Alaskan tundras,
And the dwindling frozen crusts of northern shores.
We'll lift the winter veil, a dissolution
That proceeds from the acidic vibrance
Of the morning hour.
But as the ice has melted into waiting basins,
So shall we under the cover of a liquid mirror
Just to maintain the glow.
Has this light illuminated the world from
Which it was born or merely
Created shadows and silhouettes,
A darkness it had never been and
Forms they will never be?
We will never know which one
Until the sun has come.

Learn more about this author, Benjamin Hanowell.
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