A Dream of Passing Fire
A Dream of Passing Fire
by Katherine January | Bountiful, UT
The first night, before we crossed
the Pyrenees on the French side
I dreamed I was passing fire to others
as we crouched in the shadow
of a huge red rock
We were all there, and we were passing
fire. Bowls of fire. In clay pots.
Nothing could be seen but the flicker
of light on rock
This was not a relic of Atapuerca
where fragments of ancient humans
had been found among stones.
This was different
This was the way it feels to be alone—yet not be
This was a small stringed song
in a courtyard at dusk. Chorizo
and fried egg on warm bread.
An open-sided barn, a man and his son
sorting almonds in an old tin tub.
Fresh figs, hidden
until someone showed us
how to look behind the leaves.
Grapes full to bursting
and legions of sunflowers past flowering
heavy brown heads
bowing together
dying together
no gold left in their faces
but when we looked
all we saw was gold
Editor’s note: This poem is from the collection Dreams of Passing Fire: Companion Poems from the Camino (Shanti Arts Publishing, 2024). Find a review of that collection here.
