Before we are ash, we are ember:
amber blocks of carbon
glowing in the fading light; the
glory of a campfire at the end of
the evening, marshmallows toasted
and stories shared; red
like the sun when it’s setting.
Before we are ember, we are fire:
blazing tongues hungry for sap;
roaring, dancing, rising—casting
shadows and sending up smoke signals
to leave our mark; beautiful
and dangerous, and where we burn
strongest, we burn blue.
Before we are fire, we are flame:
climbing over kindling on four limbs,
then two; sure until the wind
knocks us down; gentle hands
build us up again, hold us close
like tapers at a vigil where voices
sing of birth and death.
Before we are flame, we are spark:
the miracle of something out of
nothing, rocks colliding
in the wilderness; the flash
from a sparkler grasped
in a child’s hand, twirling, tracing
shapes on a summer evening.
Before we are spark we are—
what are we? A dream of our mother,
a twinkle in our father’s eye?
Or this: an invisible apple plucked
from an invisible tree, chosen
by the God of roots, trunk, and
branches, the apple of God’s eye.
