One of the first great freedoms
in my life was camping alone
under a cottonwood at Taylor Creek.

I was surprised my folks had given
in without a fight, because fight and
fright were residents at our house.

I don’t remember it being a rite
of passage, a mystical moment
when I assumed a new name,
I had enough at home to live down to. 

What settled in that night
was the absence of fear. No sounds
in the night could compare
to the storm I’d escaped from.

The fellowship of fire, the smell
and taste of cowboy coffee, listening
to the conversations of the creek
was enough.  

Enough to believe that I could be
                  something other 
than my father’s predictions.

There is nothing like a fire on a long, cold night
whose crackling cadence says you’re not alone.
And day-forgotten fears often swell into the dark
when phantom shadows squeeze an anxious heart.
But within the flames is a window of coals
a realm with mesmerizing power,
enough to burn the thorns and tangled vines
if I hold out my hands and let them go.
For me, it’s a wordless prayer, when I gather
branches, strike the match, and fuel hope.