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The fire compels at three feet off: be warm,

and says at two: be careful where you stray.

At one, his heat is as bright as his form,

and says your hands should kindly stay away.

We listen well to what he has to say.

We’ve seen what happens when things get too near.

And do on purpose with our ores and clay,

what many of our bravest ones most fear.

We think what happens to the clay is good,

and metals even more the valuable.

They change for good before the burning wood—

but us? We are not so malleable.

But some do drop their hearts into that fire

and clothe it in transformed and fey attire.

~~~

The paint that I find beautiful today

was blood from my own fingers yesterday.

The thought that now can calm a cruel woe

was melancholy mere moments ago.

Behold the blood that drips from my paintbrush!

How precious is its color and its sheen!

It smears my canvas in a rosy blush,

and turns pain into beauty where it’s been.

Dear heart, keep mixing paint, tho sore you be,

let no faint spirit stop your factory.

Dear mind, polish your pain until it shines,

as rocks beneath the water where it winds.

Beauty for ashes is no pleasant craft—

for fire is in every fiber’s graft.