Solar Maximum

When her fire burns, she dances.
From a darkness below into another above she rises, and begins swaying to an internal rhythm discernible only to herself and the ineffable cosmos. She is one with the light of her sun—the fire spreads from her
heart to her fingertips as she reaches far out into infinite space.
She dances.
She arches her back, her head held high facing the darkness, and leans to one side, then to the other. She spins to the left, the hem of her dress sparking below her as she glides—then leaps gracefully back to the right, the fire following her with her every step. The inherent rhythm of the universe guides her, as it has guided stars for eternity.
Her spin tightens, quickens. The fire pulses at her fingertips as she
reaches higher into the darkness—beneath her, embers ignite into
red-hot, passionate glow. She unfurls her arms, gestures gracefully back and forth as the vigor of her sun dance increases in a solar wind.
Her movement ignites her.
She is light.
She is fire.

Her dance began billions of years ago.
She was not then what she is now. She was an incarnation yet to be
seen, yet to be felt.
She dwelled then in the darkness below the flames, silent, waiting, an impending disturbance to the simmering sea around her.
She carried a force stronger than herself and did not know it. But,
hopeful, she waited for a spark.
Now is her time. Her movement generates a vortex of violent magnetism, and the electrical ferocity within her body increases as she dances.
One spark is all she needs to light up the darkness, to send waves of
electricity through the galaxy. One spark is all she needs to dance.
She is radiation.
She is energy.

Another dancer emerges from the inferno.
But her dance doesn’t stop. She moves in circles, eyeing the new force from a distance before they approach each other. Back and forth they sway, a mesmerizing near-tango in this sea of fire.
They almost touch. Static swells between them—they are captivated by nothing else but this serendipitous meeting. Sparks fly as she ruffles her dress. The other dancer circles around her, equally flirtatious in her movement.
She extends her hand. Body meets celestial body.
The reaction is immediate—a magnificent detonation from their touch rocks through their bodies, through the universe. The power forged from their nuclear fingertips races away into the cosmos in a resplendent wave, creating a hoop of heat and light above their heads.
They unite, they ignite. They stand firm.
Two dancers become one. Each pulse from their glowing bodies radiates more intensely within their cores until the pressure becomes more than they can bear—they can burn no more—they break free.
They are fusion.
They are explosions.

The light fades. The sun song ends.
The darkness returns to surround them.
The two dancers remain joined in a lingering ray of light. Their
interlocked fingers, moments ago the source of a dazzling blaze, feel
cold, empty, bereft of the intensity that sparked such a blast.
Her dance is over, but the heat she created is not lost—it has a new
destiny. It races across the universe now, each particle hurtling toward planets and moons and galaxies. It will never die, but continue
to manifest itself in new forms.
And the fire will always remain.
She disconnects from the other dancer, slows her rhythm, then stops altogether. She bows to her partner, for the first and last time, and sinks slowly back into herself—into the glowing embers whence she came, where she created herself from sheer force of will.
No more will she dance, but the dance is not over. Someone will rise again from the embers.
For we all smolder with the same potential.
She dances.
She passes the torch.