A cold autumn’s eve lit by a frosty moon, 

pastures gleaming in the evening dew.

A swift breeze sways the grass side to side,

like a sea of serpents in a trance with the moonlight.

A distant glow on the horizon’s brow, 

radiating yellow and orange hues.

A blaze from a camp’s unattended tinder,

embers of a beacon of passion in the night.

 

The wind’s soul beats with a gust to a gale,

a warming presence, a feeling unable to explain.

The wind blows and the fire flickers back,

their gazes locked, flames like hips, the wind holds tight.

The fire and the wind dance through the night, 

a tango of the elements turning darkness into light.

A brewing storm, like an elemental tea,

the mug is knocked and down pours the rain.

 

With a biblical downpour, the clouds open 

flooding the passion of their burning love. 

With a whoosh and a gust

but too little too late,

the fire’s met its extinguishing fate, goodnight.

Glowing embers of their love smothered by watery sorrows; 

clouds will clear, and light erupts. 

One day the spark will reignite;

the fire and the wind will dance through darkness into light.