One walks a bed of needles when they glide barefoot over the scorched grass
Dried sharp by the pressed light of the sun
Blades pierce, more often bend, in soft surrender under feet of those 
Who run to seek, not to flee
It is a kindness, sometimes, to surrender rather than stab
The sky descends in thick cuts, and the sun, a yellow thumb, 
Strains to hang on the horizon, but is pulled off the edge by an eager and climbing night
In this moment the finally cool earth sighs, cracks and flings opens its doors so
The dead can burst out and dance with the living, 
To drink the cool, throw water and wine into the air 
Red shards that freeze and fall like rubies at the feet of all the souls released to dance.
Eternity hangs overhead, as many stars as blades of grass, and one would gladly
Walk on fire at that burned moment, midnight in July, 
To stop earth’s steadfast advance to sunrise
But the earth tilts slowly, calmly reaches to gather and lift the sun
All spin with the curve, souls and bodies join to cartwheel with the earth’s
Slow spin so their hands walk the bed of needles 
While their cool, bare feet graze the fire above. 

© 2005 by Heather Helene Hooper. All rights reserved.