Fire of the Wise

This morning the Stone is everything.

Art, wisdom, music, love.

the crow’s call
a half‑charged phone
and a mug gone cold

To sublime it philosophically is still the work, though no one here names themselves philosopher anymore. The Secret Fire is said to be hidden, but in this age of notifications and endless scroll, it flickers everywhere.

in the pause
before replying
an audible breath

No one reveals the Fire openly. They never did. Yet the gift of Heaven, if that’s the right word, arrives sometimes in the middle of a supermarket aisle, or when waiting for a bus. Work, meditation, prayer, the old triad persists, disguised as showing up, paying attention, and asking for clarity without shame.

Even now, nothing is impossible to understand. It only asks that we stop, read the signs, and let the Stone speak in its own slow way.

winter noon
the cracked screen
glows with light

Paul Conneally

30th December 2025