We form a queue
around a small
million year old blossom

-are captivated
by a dripping peak
of creeping continuum.

Mineral trunks
put forth silence like foliage.

Iron tints and striations
in bezels of stillness.

We, bat-like, mill and scud
confined as we are
to a confusion of light.
It is the glimmer
of this bejeweled darkness
that tips us
into its pitching gravity.
Facets and funnels
of obsidian sky
leave us tottering
between plummets.

Now fear wipes its face
with a blackened hand
shadows quash
carriage, mien and stance-

once again
we forget
to beget fire.

















(C) Eric Ashford July 08