I am at the fire as I would likely be, come the chill hours of inactivity, having gathered up the dead detritus from the yard and put to match some old wood rested on it. The lifeless pile took flame with greed, as if surprised by need of it, and gratefully gave itself to be consumed by fire. For a time the world is all ablaze, all red and yellow hot upon my face, flush with pregnant sparks giving birth to ever greater iterations of fire.
Then I think let it all burn, all that is useless; let it burn, all that is cast off and idle; in my mind an eternal flame, even as the wood before my eyes melts to ash and climbs to heaven on a pillar of smoke. Ash settles down to earth with me, ash in the air darting through shadows, bitter on the tongue, gray in the hair. The universe is cold; the space between the stars blank. The bodies of the universe are all ash.
As long as there is flame I stay with it. I inch closer as the cold elbows in, jealous of my place. I stir. Chars catch a breath and come to light, soon fading, embers weary of their work, blinking heavy eyed, nodding off to sleep. When at length all that can burn has burned, refined to its last remains, glowing scarlet crystal, intensity wanting fuel denied, I leave it to its vultures, satisfied all becomes at last what does endure.