The trees that took in the summer light, give it back in winter’s hearth. On those coldest of days how the sunny flames leap. To the whoosh of a sledding wind, her crackles are as a sparkly giggle, merry and bright. Sitting at the hearth from daylight into the star speckled hours, is perhaps my favourite thing to do. Add a good chat, a book and a hot chocolate or two and it’s the rest I need once the day’s work is done.
In otherwise total blackness, the blue fire leapt. What it burnt could not be seen. Was it floating on gasoline? Perhaps. It had a reflection the same as it would with a mirror; as high as it rose, it was also as low. Ted took a deep breath, inhaling the air. There was a faint odour with a chemical sting, enough to make his eyes water and his nose wrinkle. If it had smoke, the wisps were hidden in the cloak of night. All he could be sure of was that none of them should create any sparks until they were on safer ground.
A fire is only well behaved in its bed of iron, yet should the wind call upon its spark, should the earth call for its flame, should the water cry out for warmth - fire takes the leap it always could have.
When the world drinks poison rather than water, when the earth is ignored and the air chokes - the time of fire returns as guardian of creation, the crash pads of the universe.
I am the flame and the spark, I am that which brings the ashes to birth a flock of phoenix birds. I can only be what I am. For there are times when fire is the solution.
I am fire, yet I only burn away the old so that you can thrive. I come to bring light and heat to the heart and soul. I come as your pilot light. Fire is raw energy, it roars every bit as much as the lion.
The fire dreams in its iron bed, cozy in the metal that glows. Her flames transform the wood into the most transient of beauties, hot ribbons of light. There are times it sparks, as if it wanted more than one crazy way to dance, as if it needs to leap, to fly, willing to land where it may.
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