fire season

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Distance of the Fire Season

They don’t think to warn you of the quiet creaking closing of internal doors The slow gathering of mangled twigs catching in the creeks In the places it wants to bend And turn The low smoke plumes that hang listless over the city In still winter nights when the sky has gone stagnant And, of course, what do I know of their wood stoves And fireplaces How to open the flue And clean out the soot When I smell the burning I feel hot spinning winds around me The contrast of the dryness of air stretched against my dewy lips The golden hills rippling with ribbons of licking flames along the curves Wafting swells of gray clouds blustering up into the seething hazes The outstretched limbs of scorched trees splayed open As their leaves catch aglow in their searing ruination I feel the fallen acorn in the ashes As it touches its first green shoot down into the fecund soils Drinking the rare drops Sheltered from the grinding sun Throughout all that changes The stillness and storms I am anchored here underground In and under This is where you will find me

They don’t think to warn you of the quiet creaking closing of internal doors
The slow gathering of mangled twigs catching in the creeks
In the places it wants to bend
And turn

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