Cascade

Warmth.

It comes from the clash.

The frost behind us.

The flame before us.

Cackle. Sizzle.

We witness an eruption

of aged oak.

Oak that was harvested

after years of nature's cycle.

But only now, years of age

veils us and fills every

crevice surrounding us.

Conversation emanates.

A ceremonious outcry

at the moon’s peak.

Midnight.

But,

only the oak spire

arouses attention.

There is only us here.

Reflections upon the past.

Resolutions for the future.

But none of that matters yet.

Now,

we wear lumber as our perfume,

we keep our ears tender to Thom Yorke,

we are cradled by the oak's mist,

we savor the coarse sting of our spirits and cigars.

Only anticipation is left

to behold this eruption trickle

and the oaks cascade.