As flames fold to a white plague,The wisps of bland smokeConverse with the clean airTo besmirch honesty.The curling petals of fire beckonAnd hold transfixed observersLike moths condemned.And it is not a rage,Not a scorching.No, this is subtle and deft.A gentle, gradual burnThat cascades throughIts kindling brushIn tingling orange strandsLike a masterplan.But bring to it spirit!Then…