An ember of marvel crackles within,
that which drives me deep into empty pools,
down the ubiquitous tree,
even to the ground moving under the sky,
always jumping, burning at the enterprises.
If I could reach it, hold it, I’d pin it on my chest
and parade, a walking smokestack,
through world’s every corner,
demonstrating as I go the immensity,
the effort, the pride in its interminability.
And should I ever grow old and infirm
and can no longer reach the pool’s bottom
the roots or even the brown lawn,
sure as death my ember still will burn,
prodded if only by darling stray memory
Carson Pytell is a poet living in a small town outside Albany, NY. His work may be found online and in print in such publications as Vita Brevis Press, The Virginia Normal, NoD Magazine, Blue Moon Lit & Art Review, Spank the Carp, Crack the Spine, Futures Trading and Gideon Poetry Review.