The Fire

There are but a few dying embers remaining,
A few throbbing gems in the darkness.
I know not whence died this fire,
So well fed and stoked thought I.
But it lies here dying, cold to its purpose,
Lingering on what little fuel it finds.
I would cup some embers to warm me,
But would accomplish only wounding
Myself and the memory of Past flames.
Hence I watch helpless my cherished fire
Die into the grinning darkness,
Illuminating me, soothing me no more.
I try to stoke the embers, blow upon them,
My breath perhaps to grant them life,
But they but flare until my sighs give way,
Then fail even more dimly that before.
Hopeless it seems to save this fire,
Yet I dare not place new logs upon it,
For smother what remains might I.
But it is warmth and comfort and magical joy
Which I desire at this moment,
Despite my intractability at releasing this once-fire.
In the end, I can choose only one path;
Building anew, hoping faithless that some
Gem portion of the old will help spark the new.
Now I patient wait the darkness
To see what fire bursts anew.