all season we flew close to the fire
when a puff of wind put out a flame
we hurried to re-light the wick,
digging it out of the wax,
from end to end,
never minding the singed wings
but in the end
fire still burns
the fierce factory of the sun
will not be denied
the old barrel gets lopsided
from being rolled out
again
again
and again
Thank you for reading!
The Poetry Patio 