Garden of Flame

Through sun-baked days
I built a garden of flame in a barren land.

I have trucked in crushed stone
and swirled its many colors
in spirals and arcs across the footprint
of a burned lake.

I have shaped pillars of obsidian
and stood them up
radially and concentrically
along the gravel swirls.

Through the chill times of night
I kindled campfires for light
and sawed and split and stacked
great runs of fuel between the pillars,
walls of wood twisting knots and paths
from the center of my garden to its edge.

Any garden of flame
must also be a garden of shadow
so I have twisted steel rods into fantastic shapes
and interlocked their curves
so their shadows will writhe like slithering graffiti
in the dancing firelight; a clutch of cobras
entranced by a bottle gourd flute.

I have hung
oil lamps and gas lamps
and torches dripping pitch.
I have mortared together rounded river rocks.
I have welded together grated braziers.
I have stacked stone circles.
I have propped up slabs of granite.

All of this I have done to cradle great flame
leaping red-gold and blue and green;
all of this dancing glory I will start with one spark.

Wear this twisted little trinket:
rest the metal between the knobs of your collarbones.
When your flesh warms it, it will open doors to anywhere.
Try it; open this door and step through with me
into my garden of flame.