I began writing this poem three years ago on the beach in Venice, California, in the scorching sun after returning from a hike through the Southern California chaparral. It remained unfinished in my notes until today, Easter Sunday 2026; when it returned and revealed its completion.

What The Fire Keeps

In the dry grass in a tethered sway,

The dead dance in this ancient display.

There is life above and beneath our feet,

But there is no shelter here, no houses or streets.

With every rolling stone and briar on the plain,

They are washed away in the harshest winter rains.

For each season rises anew, a body of verdant green, brilliant hue.

As the breezes move low upon the ground,

It lifts what settles and turns it around.

The dust does not rest from where it first lay down,

It moves again, delightfully unbound.

The feathered ones feed and carry the seed,

Where it will fall or come to be.

Wing by wing, the sky is crossed,

Nothing is kept and never lost.

Let your name fall quiet in the turning earth,

For nothing you can hold

Can ever measure its worth.

Only to witness, carry, and behold,

And pass it along as the grasses burn gold.

When the fire ceases and has run its course,

It only answers to the higher source.

What burns away is not the end—

But how the living world begins again.

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