The Coals Still Burn
The fire has run low.
the last flames flicker and die out.
The dark of the night is no longer pushed back.
In the distance there are coyotes yipping,
their cries echoing along the quarry walls.
Beautifully dangerous beasts, safely afar.
It is time to go to bed. A night well spent
by quivering light. Hypnotic. Crisp.
The cold pushed back.
It is time to go in. The coals still burn,
far more hot than the rampant flames,
cleaning to heat as if they know far better
the value of life
as it draws to an end.
About this poem
What they don’t tell you about aging.