Fynbos logic requires fire to be written into the body of a landscape.
The burn comes first.
Black earth. Bare branches. A strange silence afterwards.
Fire opens what has been holding the seed. A protea erupts from the chest, where the heart has been holding heat. Something in the body has learned to speak the language of the flames.
This is where I can begin again, in this furnace full of God. I am standing in the centre of a pyre. I am fire made.
Let the flower stay close to the heart awhile. Let the heat become blood, sap, memory.
Let what opened in the fire travel downward, deep into the dark damp earth, where the roots know how to find what will feed them.
From here, I am rooting the Infinite.
