Night Sestina

The sparks rise

From the crackling fire

Beneath the starry sky;

The wind rushes

Through the trees

As the night becomes old

The logs, weak and old

Are no longer at rise,

Abandoned from the trees

And banished to the fire

As the chill from above rushes

Down from the sky

Darker grows the sky,

Making new souls old

By the breeze that swiftly rushes

That will soon rise

By the light from the fire

That reflects onto the trees

The swaying of the trees

Beneath the dark sky

Bend before the fire

They are too old

To rise

With the air as it rushes

It rushes, rushes

And lack are the trees

As the moon is at rise;
The black sky

Is now old

With little light from the fire

The fire

Rushes,

It is old;

Invisible are the trees

From the sky

That will no longer rise

All is quiet as the old fire dies

And nothing more rushes among the trees,
The slow rise of the night sky is complete