After Night Watch, photograph by Jack McLeod
The fire lookout belches light
like the furnace stoked to consume
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.
Say their names. Yes, say them.
But when you do, ask yourself why
you do not recall their Hebrew names,
why the winners in this history
favored names bestowed by losers.
Adam’s primordial taxonomy complete—
extrapolate, tried and found wanting—
we label even what lies in shadow,
impatient even with sun and moon.
The lookout doth protest too much.
Even a lone wick in its window
might lure a prodigal safely home,
but no; it must bellow its truth.
Knows it not we’ve darkness enough,
each enough to last an eternity,
each enough to know light when seen,
each content enough with stars?
Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah
had no use for the furnace blast,
had no use for Babylon monikers,
no use for winning wars of words.
Perhaps the lookout tells us this:
The furnace is a means, not an end.
Be not defined by refining fire;
illumined, brave the darkness.