A Secret Joy in the Flame

Is there a third shadow possible,
Subtle, walking between the others
And disguised by their companionship?

Creation, work, one kind of shadow,
Thrown by fresh past that had to be made,
What’s next as novel you had to make,

Your say in how the story turns out
But your burden to keep it churning,
What just happened, what just happened next,

Or its partnered polar opposite,
Discovery of what was waiting,
What was written, you as the reader,

Ease of the shrugged shoulders, acceptance—
But if it’s not the tale you wanted,
You can’t remake it, not what happened next.

Is that a third shadow wedged in there,
Thrown by an unseen figure of speech,
Some other allegory of change

As storytelling? Not as writer
Of the worlds that will have been to come,
Not as reader of what was waiting,

But as . . . what? Neither the responder
Nor the responsible to story,
What would you be then? The burning page?