Winter Fire
By John Herlihy

At first a speck of nothing,
A spot of shadow on the whitened plain;
But there was definitely something,
Crying out in search of a name.

Footsteps on snow in the silence,
Echoing a fluid crescendo of sound.
A man walking in the wilderness,
Himself but a speck on the ground.

The winter landscape crisp and clear,
The silence feeling incredibly near.
Nothing to interrupt the winter whiteness,
But a splash of red paint to mar the brightness.

The spill of color stirred his imagination;
The man advanced toward the temptation.
What could this be interrupting the white flow,
He felt a thing stirring his cold heart into a glow.

The feel of the cold was to him already familiar;
The winter of the soul has its own peculiar shiver.
He plodded on in curiosity as he knew he should;
He saw the makings of a fire as he knew he would.

At first, the fire seemed like a winter mirage,
Beckoning his lonely soul in this bleak montage.
Closer still, the fire seemed like a gash or wound,
Then in the whiteness, the winter seemed festooned.

Up close now, the man approached cautiously,
Not really sure how to respond to this prophecy.
The tongues of fire leaped and lingered in the air,
Flaming spears suggesting the whispers of a prayer.

Even the season of winter has its compensation,
When a fire emerges from nowhere as a revelation.
He opened his palms to the fire his peace to show;
In return, the fire filled his heart with an inner glow.