By a Hearth

For Tom
Today the autumn sun and now this fire
upon my face. Its will-o'-the-wisp circles
black logs, slants and scissors under
the wrought iron canopy. I throw needles
fallen from the casuarina tree,
lean close to firecracker red-and-silver,
firefly's faint blue hum. On the grate,
needles curl then subside, wires of ash.
Pain is the blind flaring of those needles,
their collapse into useless nerves. It burns
through us, bushfires of it exploding treetop
to treetop, quicker than sense can follow.
I tend these embers, search for something
steadying here, as the room grows brighter —
years of stored sunlight slowly being set free.