There are times when the fire goes out.
When what was once ablaze in the night sky turns to black.
But what is it when a fire goes out?
When the flames dwindle down to a single dancing orange ribbon.
A flicker of a flame creates a cascade of shadows over your face and you wonder when did the fire start to die in the first place.
I used to love to poke a fire once it died.
A surge of hope would sometimes rise as I poked and prodded at the rocks that pulsed its orange glow.
I would see orange underneath the black and grey, like a firefly inviting you to run amongst the trees as it leads the way into the moonlight.
Through persistence and a push, I could see more of the orange glow that I hoped to see.
Sometimes underneath the places I once thought were dead.
Sparks would start to fly in the middle of the darkness.
I would strive to find that one ember, an emblem of hope.
Once I found it, I knew I shouldn’t stop until I would see it glow again.
And with that glow, a flame.
And with that flame, a fire.