We had friends, a party, and a fire in the pit. When I woke the next morning, a whisper of smoke drifted from the fire pit.

The Fire in the Pit

I nearly lost my fire in the fire of my youth.

But fires don’t work that way.

The embers of the original fire remain red and ready.
They have waited for me
to return to the pit,
the center of my soul,
this place where I know myself.

I know I can’t recapture every thought, dialogue, or emotion of a past I didn’t bother to journal.
Yet, in the darkest embers,
all of me—every thought, every dialogue, and every emotion—
is baked in, hardened, annealed.

When it cools, I’ll run my fingers along the raised letters of the past and know what was,
forever caught in this unattended fire,
pit of longing and desire.

Basic.
Earthy essence of my soul.

I could fret,
All those wasted years!
But they’re here. They’re still here.

Patient ember.
Dormant fire.

The slightest hopeful breath from my aged lungs
wakes the flames,
and all is alive, dancing,
old ash rising red through the night sky.
Young flame, eager stallion rearing, legs swinging with glee:
It’s time, it’s time!

The gate opens.
We gallop through the meadows of moors and memory.

The fire that burned recklessly through a youth almost forgotten now
awakens to tell the stories,
to discover the truths of a life lived on fire,
a life saved by fire.

I blow on the pit of my middle ages.
An initial hum of color, lights waking on a machine, the red throat of a lizard.

I breathe,
in to recover,
deep, deep,
filling my belly,
out to remember,
navel sinking
to push desire across embers,
to wake my pen,
to fire the words,
to recover what I left unattended.

I write fire.
I fire words.
Words fire me.

©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2025.