The Campfire Poem by Don Winslow

The party was over everyone in their tents
No flames from the campfire
His work was done

He had given them what they wanted
A blazing roaring good time
He’d used all his tricks

Gouts of flame shooting high
Exploding pinecones louder than pistol shots
And sparks rising rising lighting up the darkness above

But now he was tired
No more red-orange tongues no more crackling of wood
This was all he had to give

His color was gray his color was white
There was no sign that he was still there
Unless you knew where to look

Bring your hand close to the ashes
You’ll feel warmth still there still there
He remembers the good times he is content
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Just a reflection, old age talking to the young. A child would look at the ashes and think the fire was dead. Not so, not so.