Such understanding
is most easily acquired
in the quiet company
of spirits and strangers,
or those who have walked
the unlit path
of never again,

and rarely occurs
in the living,
who often prefer
the dullness
of half tones
and pale shades
of grey
to dazzling yellows
or deep wells
of blue.

To understand fire,

one must walk
barefoot
in the place
where blistering grace
drips oil and blood
on the flame
of all
you thought
you were,

as if to see
god
without skin
and not look away
when you recognize
yourself
in the marrow.

Such understanding comes

only
when you have gazed
with three eyes
into the mirror
of melting ice,
and, reaching through
cold glass,
you feel your fingertips
brushing against
the jagged edges
of your soul,

where bright red sorrow
bleeds into the whiteness
of your memories,
triggering an avalanche
of tipping points
and tears
in the fabric of time;

then chaos
coming in loops
of furious spin
and fading hope,
as inertia falls in love
with itself
in a death spiral
of endless grieving …

and you lie
in cold sweat,
as if newly wounded
under the dark snow
of knowing;

and

in a rush of blood
and time gone by,
you remember
swirling black holes
and how the dead
learned about Light
from under the ashes,
and how music
can breathe magic
into the throat
of a tongueless bell;

and the smell of rain
makes you want …
makes you want
to inhale all that is good,
and you find yourself
breathing again,
even as the stillborn
dove falls silent
at its own
baptism.