A wordless poem of fires

 

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A poem is a series of brief fires.

The colors of autumn’s maple and locust trees

condensed into red and yellow word images.

 

Glowing above the match I hold

and in the fireplace when wood catches

or in the burner of the gas stove.

 

And beyond all words, the urban fires

jumping from rooftop to rooftop, 

and forest fires leaping tree to tree.

 

And the fires of war’s burning

of innocent bodies and souls.

(Innocent bodies and souls in fire and ash.)

 

Wait! 

This poem is a series of brief fires.

We light candles against the dark

and for celebrating births

and for remembering the dead.

 

We see the fire of miracles like burning bushes

and other visions, the fireworks

of finding the way.

 

We see the fire of the sun and other stars,

fire impossible to imagine

unless as small and fast as a comet,

 

or reflected off the moon or lake

something that can’t be raked

unlike the gold and red of autumn leaves.

 

Yesterday the sky was afire

with Northern Lights—a marvel

so far south of the magnetic north.

Over the locusts and maples,
the fire of aurora borealis
is a poem. 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast