Living in a lantern (a poem)

I once lived in a teepee in the Cascade Range. In the late winter and early spring. It was cold. And wet. And magical. So I wrote a poem about it.

Living in a Lantern

Yes, the smoke comes back
down when the wind
finds your carelessness,
inviting dark gusts to prove
your life, and your pain.
Yes, the cold hangs still
when the fire dies and night
preys on your restlessness,
carving deep symbols to move
your soul, and your brain.

You are the artist, locating
origins behind the canvas,
painting memories of the hunt
on the taut skin of the lantern.
At the apex of the circle
and the triangle you dance,
a leaping flame expelling demons,
beckoning angels,
becoming light again to replace
the sun.

White men will call you savage;
the gods, illuminator.
You are the beacon, living in
a lantern, and it is
your purpose to bring them
home.