Roots twist and writhe up through the ancient earth.
They belong here, nowhere else. But the where is irrelevant.
They come together, merging into a mottled, wooden knot.
Moons pass. Winds howl. And still they creep. Their veiny hands reach further into the dirt, and simultaneously up to the starlit sky.
Centuries pass. Perhaps. Or is it hours?
A flame flickers to life inside the boxy wooden mess of roots.
Small. Terse. Unsure of itself. But not to be extinguished.
It burns. Feeding off the cool night air. Growing stronger with each passing second.
From afar, passers by can see the warm light from within. Dim though it is.
Its red flare claiming the oaken home as its own.
As the sun passes overhead the small flame grows. Etching out its space.
It is unconcerned with you. With time, and all earthly things. It cares only for what is within its walls.
Beneath the fire-lit hull is darkness. Above is darkness.
Only darkness exists. Outside.
Inside there is light. And warmth. It grows. We grow.
Entwining forever into the roots. The tree feeding off of its small flame.
Never doubt the fire inside.
It keeps the darkness at bay.
LR_2018
Poems for Crows 