Caveman

A poem about discovery

From far away, the sight of fire is cold.
Distant infernos freely dance as one watches from a rocky cove.
With one’s toes shivering in comparison,
turning blue with frostbite, brain filling with aching curiosity,
one stands, stumbling, catching oneself on the rocks of the wall,
when a loose flint, once stuck, cracks, rumbles down, sparks red and yellow,
stops at one’s toes, and warms them quietly.
Then one, a little warmer, continues the path to the inferno dance.
First a forest, down a dip, pass—by wandering—the water of a pond, nearing the fire, fearing
and wondering, dreaming daydreams as the colors grow larger in view;
at once, one comes closer, closest to the fiery chaotic inferno,
to the red and yellow, one stops at the edge of the wall of fire.
Slowly, one becomes warmer; toes, once blue, turn bright,
and stand there; the brain above, fearing and wondering, curiously reaches—
finger burns ablaze alone and dances from fear,
but it’s put out quickly, gently, quietly.
One looks up in pain, agonizing, yelling at the stars—a bird, flapping away,
elegant in comparison. Then, one burnt thumb and four bright others all reach up slowly and
suddenly, an idea forms, and above one’s head, a lightbulb burns.