by Ron Harris

Layer upon layer of flames that dance
into the air that they hope holds a chance.
Thick curling smoke floats so easily to sky
and sparks race to heaven like we do, to die.
And you know and I know that thought isn’t free
‘cause we’re all what fire is and time used to be.
Flying and trying, a child of the sun
while icicles burn down and glowing coals run
uphill and downhill and all around town
and you never even notice that you’re running to ground
while the sun, who runs circles around your best bet,
has been trying to teach life is all that you get.

Well, thank you dear doctor, but I think I’m worse
and I had meant to pay you but I’ve spaced out my purse.
So some go to praying and some go to gun,
but all you want to do is have a little fun
by scaling, regaling those crystalline spires
that loom up above all your hot little fires
that warm you and warn you and drive you so sane
that sometimes you think you’ve caught the wrong train.
So lightly and quickly like some hunted deer
you go dancing off in a ballet of fear
that only leads uphill, but that can be nice
because some fires burn brightly on a glacier of ice.

And when you come down and you’re ready to quit
it’s good to warm your bones around those fires a bit
and stop all that singing and thinking for once
and lay around the office like a good little dunce
and marvel and wonder at all that you’ve read
from The Wizard of Oz to the Book of the Dead.
But I know and you know that thought isn’t free
when you just stop and think about all you could be
Tomorrow and Monday and Forevermore
if only you can climb up to where there’s a door.