Fire had sustained, now it consumes in a slow gesture. Fingers—intact—same shape as they were before, can’t conduct. Invoking is a painted portrait, prepared each morning in the image of the moon.
Flame like flowers still shoots spells. Stems like wands direct their colors, greens, reds, yellows. The good ember, still visible—kindled, licks of heat, whispers of words—reignite.