A scholar, old and dead, once said that all
is fire, in motion like a river’s flow.
A thrown-out match ignites the undergrowth
and trees to wrap the sky in ashen shawl.
The wind will force the rising smoke to crawl
and cover meadows with the sun’s dull glow.
The soil is fed by fallen ash and snow.
The molecules we live in do not stall.

One must be warm if all is made of fire,
but every moment is a photograph
and time the thumbing through to make them run.
To walk a yard, you must walk halfway prior,
and half of that, and half, and half, and half…
And so: all motions seen, illusions done.