Timberloft

By the elders sent

To scout the paths -

Wild the scrambles out into the brush,

Arm in arm,

fanned in broad search-

A gaggle of girls laughed up the hill,

Gathered deadlings ringed with stories to give rebirth

Fuel for passage.

A few strayed

down to the quiet of the river

Drawn by rhythmless melodies

we dawdled for beauty among the rocks,

And searched the floodlines

For the snagged travelers,

seasoned and dried in the summer heat

Sinuous and gray,

A straight and palid laurel

or red the twist of manzanita

A perfect stick for the night’s fire.

Late returned

on cheery sighs and chatter to dump our gifts-

A celebration from twisted branch and cragged limbs

Piled square and true

upon the crumbled alter.

We set the tinder

proscribed by handbook tradition-

And called a light from the supper coals.

Reserved

the best sticks by our sides

 treasures for late offering.

With whoop and roar

an invitation

Called the spirit of the ancient and brave

to the ring-

Our ears full of the pyrical call.

A song for the years of pioneers and travelers, warriors and kings

Heros to the stomp and chant.

In flames leaped and flagged-

leaped in shades of the living hands around the ring.

Snap and tune,

Echo and round

blessed the dance with sparks and sputters,

where no one kept time,

All music a roar.

A few stood

Round the far rim of the circle,

timid and pale ,

We warmed our faces to a lesser flame

Full of heart,

but blinking before the dance and song.

Our knives franked the light as we made our points for later offering,

Drawn in slower time.

The songs tugged us along the edge-

Shouldered with the shyest spirits,

We sang soft around the edge of dim,

hummed

- shaved the curls to polish the wood-

And watched.

Bold, that inner ring

who torched their sticks and told their stories-

-those bright ones who bragged into the flames, and laughed--

Their faces glowed and singed

Set delight.

They devoured their fellowship in gulps and smiles

Smudged a sooty grin across their faces and laughed

against the face of the dark.

In delicious voice,

They called the shades to attend from beyond,

to roar though us from behind.

Their sinews swooped over us

in shudders and glances over our shoulders-

Dragged down to a steadied glow.

The bravest threw in their spent sticks to be consumed-

In slowspoken tales and whispered horrors they spelled and wove,

Old ghosts

flared in the last breath of flame,

Wraiths sent to the upward deep on the rail of smoke.

Burned out

and settled to silence,

All songs abandoned to flickering dreams-

They smiled a soot-marked goodnight

chucking their gifts to the exhausted flames,

Burnt offerings to bed

before the rest.

Holding sticky hands of friendship

Their tired laughter loud against the dark ,

They straggled off,

Herded to trade candy and boytalk

And fix each others' hair.

A few stayed,

Chill to our backs and

The snarl of darkened brush cinched us closer in

A late turn.

A bit of manzanita,

-beauty in her curve,

the fate of the coals written on her satin bark-

Worked to a careful point and cradled.

Welcome the coals to warm us for the offering

Stir once again the rosy ash for ancient wisdom

Sparse seats on closest logs

Room for the shadows to sit and listen, smiling from their own fires-

Circles upon the nights in the ember reborn,

All fires before -

Huddled with the blankets of lost babes to breast,

Long skirts of flickering lights,

Raggled and snapped by the flames of memory.

Others stood behind for a watch-

unnamed for bravery or mark-

But stood the same,

a shadow before the head turned.

Substance gained as we murmered their stories,

and read their poems from behind our eyes.

Among the old ones,

we spoke of our days,

Unbagged treasures shared around,

-Each of us, our one or two-

Small and soft in the hand,

we set them to test over friendlier fire

A sacrament

Our hoped-for futures held out over the coals,

a welcome bed to warm

sweet offerings of lives unopened.

Each turned a phrase, browned in buckskin perfection.

Pulled from the stick , and held out as a gift-

Continuance of passage.

A few found

our beauty in the ashes--

The savoring of lost-hour company,

Our conversation melted sweet on the bones of fellowship-

We became

whispers in the dark-

Partakers in the sacrament of the circle.

~*~