Fire Ban
Aug 22 2021
Fires are banned
in this long summer drought
of tinder dry wood
and sun-baked underbrush.
Yet we gather around the fire
as if it burned.
As if it gave off heat and light.
As if our faces were flushed by the flames,
and shadows danced
in the cold dark night
behind our backs.
As if flurries of sparks chimneyed up
when a log toppled down,
red hot embers
were caught in a gust of wind.
A campfire of teepeed wood
enclosed by scorched black stones
in want of a match.
Because it seems so natural
to gravitate here
as we've always done.
Even absent fire.
Even in this chill.
Like a house party, or festive meal,
where, no matter what
everyone ends up
around the kitchen table,
chatting, laughing
drinks in hand.
As if gathering around the hearth,
the warm familiar heart
of any home.
Conviviality, it seems
makes its own heat and light.
And we are creatures of habit
who unconsciously follow
our well-trod paths.
Today, around the fire-pit.
Where we stoically wait
for the drought to break
the ban to lift.
Where we crave the dance of flame
and its sweet narcotic heat,
as if something deep
in our DNA
demanded it.
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