Red Coals Pulse Like Distant Stars
By mpgarofalo
The last light slips behind the ridge,
a thin ember of day still glowing.
Boots thud softly on the packed earth,
the air cooling with each step.
Evening begins before we notice.
A match flares against the breeze,
brief and stubborn in the dim.
Paper curls into orange petals,
logs shift as if waking.
Fire learns its shape slowly.
Smoke threads upward in loose spirals,
finding its own quiet route.
A kettle hums near the campfire coals,
steam rising like a soft prayer.
Night accepts our presence.
Tall trunks stand just beyond the glow,
their crowns lost to the dark.
The fire paints their bark in strokes
of copper, rust, and shadow.
Even giants enjoy a little warmth.
Voices soften as the flames steady,
words drifting like sparks.
Some tales are true, some nearly so,
all of them shaped by the night.
The campfire listens without judgment.
Logs collapse inward with a sigh,
a slow settling of heat and memory.
Red coals pulse like distant stars,
steady, patient, unhurried.
The night grows deeper around them.
The fire shrinks to a quiet glow,
its edges soft as worn cloth.
Ash gathers in pale drifts,
the remains of what kept us warm.
Nothing ends abruptly out here.
The final spark dims into silence,
leaving only the scent of smoke.
Stars settle into their places,
unbothered by our small rituals.
The forest closes gently around us.
From Bundled Up, Volume 8, BU 4020
, 1999, p. 159; Meditation for March 29th. 
