We build our little tipis, wait for fire,
we love the roar and warmth
and then it dies,
We’re left with ember, ash,
we’re left to ask:
where will we get the wood next time?

We seldom even notice that we haven’t asked
What lights the fire anyway?
And what of us has been consumed,
What has been fed?
What’s the sustaining substance of our joy?

Here is a secret: in our natural state,
we’re lit up not by burning but by being,
No conditions are required,
and we don’t need to wait —
Our love is in our yearning and our seeing

Our love ignites — it doesn’t need to be ignited,
our love is light before a fire is even lighted.

©Wendy Mulhern
June 19, 2016