Hearth Fire

We remain so often in the orange sheathing.
Dancing sparks catch our eye with their violent,
chaotic motion. We find no order
here in the tricks of our senses that we call
our world.

But what of the mauve center?
It burns so constant as to lose
our eyes,
and yet, when flames are tempered
with time or season,
it stays on in embers.

Oh, strange universe
where we are deceived by that which we feel
in our own hands
and find truth
in that which we can neither see
nor touch,
where the greatest God
takes shelter in the fragile
dwellings we call men's souls.