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In the beginning a young Love’s passion is a bonfire. We heap upon it twig, limb, and log, and it roars to life.

Because of its intensity, we enjoy the heat, light, and crescendo a step or two back, a step or two removed lest we ourselves be consumed in the conflagration.

As time passes and the fire matures, we draw closer. It settles down and we settle in around it. It warms us up close. We cook meals around it and tell stories. We stir the embers with sticks, mesmerized by the gentle flames licking and dancing their way across the logs.

The dancers retire and now the glow of the embers quiets our thoughts and stills our souls. We breathe it in.

The glow of the fire is now within us as well as without.