I almost regret to write this poem

for fear it may vanish

flicker away like Evan's flame

scared of the voices

that murmurs that carry its name

across the wind

whispers of That

 

but it only lives for a little

hiding in plain sight

waiting to be noticed

so it may slip away

one more time

 

only to be invited back

by the warm, orange glow

of the everlasting bowl

breathing with the embers

dying with the ash

 

but as the lights begin to fade

the swinging rope slows

the voices on which That

hums and dances

grow quiet

 

and as a shoulder pat resumes the night's memories made

That curls up against the shadows

waiting for the next hearts

to fill