an unwilling grate

The hearth is lying cold, and the thin whistling emanating from the chimney
plays a haunting, mournful tune.
Even the wind wishes for flames in the fireplace
for nature wants always what is natural.
The wood is piled on, the mass keeps rising
and teeters, unbalanced.
The kindle is placed, packed in carefully, stuffed in to fill the gaping holes -
And now, a wavering light is brought to the fuel
Uncertain - does it go here? Where is the place
most sensitive, most ready to catch?
Careful! The bright flame seems so willing to set alight the hands of its wielder
but not the towering column it was meant for
no matter how it is ushered in -
Jabbing, thrusting, urging the flare forward -
What can one do? All is in place, but the wood will not ignite.

What does it take for you, me, our souls, to spark?
What does man do when, try as one might, the multitudes refuse to be set afire
by the wavering light of progress?
Striking, flashing - the idea catches
for a fleeting moment, where things are most perceptive - and a hopeful ember begins to glow
but just as suddenly
all goes up in smoke
all becomes cold and charred
all is back to what it was, before.