fickle thing, memory:
flickering flame flirts with wind,
bending, a reed of light.

love forces bending: painful.
even unbalanced tones hurt.

three notes blown through brass
bent enough to hear the soul
moving across time.

our watery poems spill
sweet scent: frankincense and myrrh

silhouettes dancing
bending as flames and sound
reed a memory.

Stillness fills the void,
breath,
the reed remains.

“we might have to bend a bit,

if we are to survive—son.

you must know how

to hold water and swallow fire.”