Whirling into Flame
A poem by Julia R. DeStefano
Whirling into Flame
I don’t mind holding a basket of fire -
skin wet from the heat of the flames -
because it makes my pulse pound like a drum
in renewal of my spirit.
Not long ago, my heart was a tundra,
barren and craving a thaw,
when it wanted to bloom like a rose.
You see the flames and look on in disbelief -
dipping your fingertips, then plunging your hand
into the pail of water at your side.
But the heat casts me in a gold light to illuminate my crown,
and you are intrigued by the secret I impart
of a soul on fire.
You know that to live is to never stop being hungry.
The words dance upon my lips.
The only safe place is in your passion.
My dark eyes dig into your soul -
an archaeologist unearthing truth’s treasures.
What turns you on?
If it’s me, then hurry up, please. It’s time.
© Julia R. DeStefano
