Flame

I wake with tears
drying on my cheeks
Douglas firs lob cones
at the roof like shrapnel
rain needles impassive
window faces
storms attempt
to shatter.

To hold fast is never a given
wind can shift and knock you
from your complacent perch
shallow protection against
the inevitable creep of age
and treacherous doubt gnawing
at our ability to affect change
in ourselves, each other, the world.

And yet
these very words
spark faint rebellion
for without imagining
there can be no future
without love, no one
to cup a tender palm
around this wavering flame
not yet extinguished.