“An idea is a point of departure and no more. As soon as you elaborate it, it becomes transformed by thought.” ~Pablo Picasso
Climbing as if the earth would hold onto him,
he sat on the ringed edge of a precipice.
Kinetic energy charged the atmospheric ubiquity
of a dark so deep it can only be penetrated
by the vast ethers of a stone-age god
setting fire in the hands of the ancients;
and he sat above it,
watching minute germinations uncurl and learn to fly.
He was more Prometheus here
than anywhere else, taking in the newest
accomplishments of nature and willing them to
burn into their new skins.
Fire, his greatest possession.
Fire — more hope than threat
to vitalize the cold, dark mornings
before the sun could reach the deep chasms
of earth where life, despite the dark
and cold, gave birth to new life.
©2023: Zoëtrope in Words. All rights reserved.