I am not the Poet.
I do not have the gift
to light up life
with metaphors and feeling
enough to fill—
if only a little—
my own darkness.
I gather dry branches.
I have many.
And when the moment comes,
I ask leave
for borrowed fire—
fire that belongs to no one,
not to me, but to all.
And when it is time,
the flames call to us…
wanting to warm
the cold ignorance
that shelters us.