afire

"Man is made so that when anything fires his soul the impossibilities vanish."

'But if I say, "I will not mention him or speak any more in his name,"
his word is in my heart like a fire,
a fire shut up in my bones.
I am weary of holding it in;
indeed, I cannot.'

Fire.

I've always loved fire. Not the smoke, but the flame. Now, as the trees in New England burn and fly off their branches, and a bright round moon holds sway in the night sky, I feel a fire inside. This fire is yet a few sparks, some smoldering wood - enough tinder and matches but not enough air. Not yet a full, roaring bonfire.

But it wants to be. Yes, this fire has its own desires. It wants to be a big one, a flying all-consuming one, the kind that burns but does not consume: a glory fire.

A few of the giant logs waiting to burst into flame I can identify. I see their shapes, and know what they are, where they came from, how seasoned they are for the burning, but I do not know when their glowing ends will breathe into full fire.

Other pieces of wood, some twigs, some giant quarter-sections, I don't recognize. But they're waiting, too. And I hear the footsteps of the wood-gatherer in the forest, and know that as this gets blazing, more fuel will be added - much more.

I don't want to ride on somebody else's passion.
I don't want to find I'm just dry bones.
I want to burn with unquenchable fire.
Deep down inside, see it coming alive.

I long to burn. If I don't, I shall explode instead, or go stark mad. I've got wood ready, and my matches, too. Now I simply wait the wind to set me afire.

Soon...