Scraped flint lines scatter sparks on the kindle.
Again and again it is struck
to trace the sun on the dirty leaf canvas
as wind blows and chills bones
through the holes in his jeans and plaid shirt.
Dispersed friends sweat, discovering, chopping, collecting
a log here, a branch there: cedar, oak, and maple.
Cramped, raw hands strike repeatedly at the flint
but its flashes do no more than the word that he curses.
His sunken eyes stare at the cold, damp circle
that must ignite to warm the frostbitten fingers
of his friends after a long day’s work.
More kindle, more kindle, must be the answer,
be it stubble or hay, let it burn, let it rise to the sky
if only for a moment, a pillar of light.
But the sparks are still swallowed by darkness,
flickering at leisure as drops of sweat
continue to drip from a furrowed brow.
Friends return and stack their wood by the pit
shedding soaked socks on the fringes.
Their faith warms his heart and he strikes the flint
again and again, etching crevices in the stone.
One divine spark falls on the remnants of a bush
untainted by the rain, and it burns.
He blows like he did on his 5th birthday
and stifles the long-sought flame, but the coals
resurrect and cast his shadow on the tent.
Cheers erupt from his friends as they pile
their branches on top of the burst of light.
The flame dances, the wood crackles,
and the bush dissipates into the enduring fire
of cedar, oak, and maple.
He stands in the shadows on the outskirts
of the circle, proud, almost arrogant,
until spotting a bottle of fluid
he had forgotten to use.
They would have found another way;
There are other campfires and lighters.
God wouldn’t let them freeze.
He glances at jagged lines on his flint,
spelling his worth and insignificance.
His stubble is ashes, but he laughs at himself
and joins friends at the glorious fire
that warms the camp
and rises to the sky.
Faith Grace and the Mess in-between 