Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (13) - Flipbook - Page 21
RETURNING TO THE CAULDRON
by Stork Rein
Aged wood relaxes into ignition, reaches down to foster kindling,
foretelling that this is how it will always be,
every maple tree dies a little death with each leaf falling.
I lean over my cane toward warmth, the untamed forest
of my manhood behind me, surrounded by footprints
in the dirt and sand, the fire’s grand cauldron calling.
The face of my faithless father is missing from the flames,
but I no longer blame myself for that or any of his crooked paths.
An unlit torch is a torch that cannot be passed.
I wonder what life and home were like in his years before
he fell into many ill-fated arms, his superficial charms fading
as he tossed apple after half eaten apple into the cooling ash.
My son now has a son, my work is nearly done, at least
until after the next long sleep. I pray that I taught him enough,
loved him enough, held him enough, to keep his own love aloft.
The ocean rises and roars. This cauldron simmered
long before this night was to begin, still I peer over the rim,
dip my tempered fingers in, examine pieces too hardened, or too soft.
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