Mutualism

 

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.

 

Timekeeper, 

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 

within.