The fireweed glows  

with evening light. 


As we sink against the stamens,

you tally summer’s end among the stalks


and trade their fragrance for wintry thoughts

that fall like ashes between the blooms.



stop counting your breaths.


Nothing is saved in numbering

what fades


or missing the meal

at your feet.


As a hive, this we know —

it has always been so —


that we twine,

kin in all seasons,


and the abundance you seek

hums between us.


This mutualism

cannot be created


nor destroyed,

only lit by this moment of fire.


Can you see your place here?

When you return to what binds us,


your flame streaks skyward, 

leaping and flashing on gossamer wings,


affirming the always 

and the enough 


as you join the uncountable 


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