Our Laughing Fire

Our fire kept night at bay.
George’s soft guitar
And Ronnie’s tin whistle
Played for us
And I found my disobedient feet stir
Commanding my legs to follow.

Soon
My entire body entered the rebellion.
My arms stretched toward the stars
Fingers spread as one who might
Dare grab the moon
As a fielder may
In snaring a towering outfield fly.

I imagined
The deep drum of ancient Celts
And I moved along the whirl
Of timeless mysteries
Abandoned to reason
Delighting in communion
With tall secrets
Only the ghost of time ever knew.

George picked his dry box
Ronnie charmed with his whistle
And I danced with shadows and haunts.

We played and I danced
Until the gossamer of morning wakened
The canopy of space
And we fell along our dwindling fire
And stars dreamt
And sleep seized us
Until we were freed
By retreating mystery
And the forest floor
Once again
Was but loam
Cold fire and pine needle.

We broke camp that noon
And moved far from one another.
But when I hear strings
Or the shrill notes of a tin whistle
I transport to a long ago eve
Dancing before
Our laughing fire
And a shy pale moon.