A wordless poem of fires

 

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A poem is a series of brief fires.

The colors of autumn’s maple and aspen trees

condensed into word images.

 

Yellow, red and blue above the match I hold

and growing 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.

 

The fires of war’s intentional death

burning innocent bodies and souls.

(Is this what Baldwin meant by “The fire next time”?)

 

Wait! 

We light candles against the dark

and for celebrating the miracles of light

and for remembering dead ones.

 

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 aspens and maples,
the green and red of aurora borealis
reminds us of a poem. 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast