This Carnelian sat beside me,
cast of archaic continents,
rose from its molten womb
to catch and reflect
the candle light of my
other companion,
staunch and white.

Its rough stillness testament to
the tumultuous birth made it so.
Resting and being caressed
by the candle's touch
so like its mother's,
though softer now as both have aged.

Do they hear the call of darkness,
not guttural, but a primordial yawning
that becomes them
dancing to bed?

Or are they deaf
with the mews of each others love,
and the space sharing everything it is between?

All tired children come home,
and those that sleep on the street
know out of necessity a warmth
imparted by no hand.

While here,
I,
the poet,
retired of my earth-cast shoes,
like the Carnelian,
am remembering why the smoke rises.