A Wish

Not wishy-washy or watered down.

A blaze to burn tenets & tenements to ground.

A pure, purposed scorching that cannot be doused,

not the tainted hubris of Dr. Faust.

Where will and desire

meet as oxygen and fire,

mind and heart as two sticks rubbing, furious,

fanning glowing embers of imagination, like curious child,

wondering, willing, willful, wild,

Igniting conflagration, blue, green, gold.

Mesmerizing if it will only take hold.

This fire I’ll nurture, encircle,

its servant be made,

dutiful, not groveling, like imprisoned slave,

I will stand sentinel and stave

off the elements that would

gulp or snuff each rising spark,

protecting it from cold & dark,

raising Fahrenheit in dead of night,

while some,

safe in homes,

snugly, smugly wish my fire out,

unable to reckon what this wish is all about.

Perhaps I’ll become a well told joke,

crouched over glittering ash,

a stoker of hot air, an ass!

But I pay no mind,

cold, alone,

tucking coals in ring of stone.

Tending tender, tented down,

a line in sand or snow drawn ’round

This hearth of my heart, my passionate post,

rekindles my purpose like the holy ghost,

flames internal,



‘Til a burning bursts forth,


and my fire engulfs me, tending me in return,

kindling in kind,

holding fast to belief,

a forest fire bursting

from one dry leaf.


KINDLING – Anna Cranage Conathan – Jan. 30, 2013