Half past Midnight
(30 minutes listening to the rain)
W B Burkholder

It’s midnight, and the rain taps at my window wanting to be let in and warm its tears at my fire. I place no blame upon them, for the streets are cold and uncaring. We all search for warmth, that firelight; its embers red glow beckoning, rendering rose cheeks and outstretched hands. Its warmth unique, the type that only comes from seasoned wood and crackling coals. There are those who have never felt this, never experienced these radiations of licking tendrils, this dance of blue and orange. Destitute; searching for a place to rest and revive.

Such are the conditions of the heart, the conditions of the unloved and uncared for.
They actively seek warmth, and for life’s struggles and its reasons, this flame eludes them. It is easy to be subjective and make the judgments based on ones own lessons. But who am I to judge another’s fire, another’s passion? Is it what we place into the fire that dictates its burn? Our proverbial “sowing”, if you will?

I speak only of this poet and his fore’s into the depths of sowing rancid rows. Of reaping that of which the piper tallies and sets forth. For the piper is always near, hands outstretched, his payment never absent from his mind. We all shall pay this piper at one time or another.

Karma, come-uppance, enlightenment, epiphany? Call it what you will, understand it and reflect upon it in the glowing embers of your own fires. This hearth, life whereupon the kindling waits to be set ablaze with idea and discovery. Its half past midnight, and the rains speaks to me, and tells me this tale.