All summer long
I cut and pulled and carried them here --
hedge clippings
fallen branches from the big oaks
dessicated peonies
trimmed off spruce shoots
all of them gathered now
like a congregation waiting to be fired
I am the striker of the flame
that sputters
crackles
then leaps upwards
into orange roar
Who can not believe in transformation
Who would be foolish enough to think
I did it
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment