Fireside.

The wind stirs up the crackling embers,

Briefly illuminating his face.

The moon floats high,

The fire burns low,

As the darkness envelops him.

He runs his fingers through his smoke-saturated hair,

His hands layered with soot.

He stares into the dwindling flames,

And listens intently to the faint crackling of burning brush.

Soon, he knows, the fire will die out,

And,

With it,

The heat that it so willingly provides,

Leaving him vulnerable to the

Cold that is already creeping through his jacket.

The smoldering logs finally collapse.

All that remains is a few curling tendrils of smoke,

Dimly lit by the faint orange glow of the coals.

The heat is all but gone.

He still stares,

Refusing to believe it.

But it is.

It is finished.

It is completed.

He sighs, defeated,

shivering,

Hopeless.

After a time,

He turns his eyes to the sky,

Finds the moon.

He is unimpressed with what he sees.

A grey, desolate, pockmarked sphere

That presides gloomily over the night.

And yet…

It has light.

It might not be warm,

Nor is the light that he sees truly

The light of the moon,

But…

It still makes its appearance every night,

Regardless of the weather or the season,

No matter how dreary it may appear,

It continually fulfills its purpose, its duty.

It has never known true happiness, no.

But that doesn’t mean it never will.

Rather,

The moon is forever hopeful that,

Someday,

It may begin to shine

On its own power,

Create its own Light,

And burn fiercely.

It’s just a matter of time.

Clutching his jacket close,

Teeth chattering,

Legs quaking,

The man finally stands to walk back to his truck

And find his way home.

The coals have gone black,

And the ash is cool to the touch.

As he turns to leave,

His eyes catch a flicker of orange.

One stray log is still glowing.

He is tempted to warm his quivering hands,

Even for just a moment.

But what good would it do?

Certainly it would provide his frozen fingers with

The heat that they so desperately crave,

But only for a moment.

Instead,

He walks to the edge of the fire ring,

And crushes smoldering log beneath his heel.

“I will find my Light,

my Heat,

somewhere else,

even if it means

I must endure the cold

 indefinitely.”

And, with that,

He left,

With his jacket wrapped tight

And his path lit by the light of the moon.