At the Hearth

The blessed sleep of the just
again evades me, and so I now
sit at the hearth, holy
in its own way: a kind
of graced sanctuary.

Shadows dance lauds on walls,
while tongues of fire preach
a sound sermon:
“You are standing on holy ground!”

In this chapel, no offering is taken,
but it offers opportunity
to sing praise, if not
with raised hands then
at least with razed
certainties,
knowing that knowing
is like a flame:
illumining and dangerous
both, and then gone,
so quickly
gone…

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I the Wick

No fire can replace You –

Warmth

Light

Glow.

But still I enjoy

fireplace

candle and

lamp.

They dance me

red, orange, and azure too.

They draw me

in inviting me

out of dark pettiness

and so they echo You.

But fires also rage and raze

forest,

homes,

hearts, and I

swear that when I
shake my first at You,
You play the

Flame and I the

wick.