Golden liquid, suspended in crystal,
Held in contemplation while
Lounging before the fire.
The flames dance, causing the
Liquid to achieve a comfortable glow
That is shot through
With the occasional spark
As the fire essence of the liquid
Tries to take on more than
Its current slumbering form.
The sparks sit in the eye
So that when the eyelids close
The sparks are found in that sometimes darkness,
Iridescent bolts, almost quivering
While caught in this ephemeral trap.
Lips to glass the slumbering fire is
Finally taken in, the smoky trail
Gliding across the tongue and
Down the throat, almost quivering
As it finds its way to the belly
And joins the sleeping fire
Carefully banked there.
The accumulated warmth slips
Over the embankments, slowly spreading
Down the arms and legs till the
Whole body is aglow
And the mind drifts off to visit
The poppy fields of sleep.
by Kenneth Baker