That he might find his flint
lost years ago;
slipped from his pocket
when he climbed into the limbs
of the great oak
to meet his first love.
He did not miss it then.
Her light was enough.
And he could not have known
that he couldn't warm himself
at the fire of another forever;
or that standing in her light
he would cast so large a shadow.
It was the sorrowing season that brought him to his knees.
Even the oak bowed low
beneath the weight of that winter.
Some of its limbs broken
and his own heart,
fenced behind its icicled cage of ribs,
twisted like a bow drill between his frozen fingers.
Twisting, twisting and still no spark.
This is my prayer then:
that he bend his face to the frosted ground,
his falling tears
the first spring thaw,
unearthing what he's thought he's lost
from its muddled sleep.
This is my prayer:
That he might find his flint.
Strike it against steel.
Burst into Holy Flame.
- J. Esme Jel'enedra