The fire roars
With something more
Than the tickling warmth
Of its ferocious flames.

Maybe it's whispering
Of secrets untold
Like the whooshing wind through the treetops
At dawn on a blistery, blissfully white winter day.

Perhaps it is serenading
Of truths that are too well known
Truths we are so familiarized with
That they have been remolded, renamed, as clichés.

So the blue eyed girl
Sits slouched in her chair, eyes fixed on the computer screen
As her mind swirls in a kaleidoscope
Thoughts making their way back to the roaring, whispering, serenading fire.

I could disclose
Of what the fire roars, whispers, and serenades about
But would there be any joy in it
If I did not leave it to your imagination?