Fire’s Passage

We are at the beginning of our fire season here. What with drought conditions; the trees being so dry, and the brush dry and brittle, it is going to be a long and hot season. Our monsoons arrive usually in August, but they have for the past few years fizzled. We can no longer depend on them for relief. I am a forest and I fear the immediate future, but in the long run, well, read on:  Fire’s Passage 

Quietly,

unobtrusively,

a spark in the grass—

 

You come into my world

of green and beauty.

First, taking so little

no one will notice—

 

I resist your heat

for as long as I’m able,

until

I’m weak and wanting,

succumbing to your advances,

your desires,

your flames

until

they smother me—

Then,

when I can no longer breathe,

you take me,

use me

destroy me,

until

I am no more.

 

You crown with fury,

shake your fist at the sky,

then,

with your ally, wind

to aid your passage.

you move on—

 

A dragon devouring all,

breathing flame,

raping and blackening the land.

 

Beasts of the forest,

flee you now.

Fly you away,

birds of feather.

Burrow, those of you that can.

Dig deep in the earth

before it’s too late—

 

I can no longer shelter you,

protect you

now that my cloak of green

is black

and my needles shriveled,

destroyed in fire’s flaming path.

 

You are a demon

on a rampage,

leaving nothing behind, except

the acrid smell of burning.

You attack my senses,

rape me,

leave me

in smoldering, smoking ashes—

 

Then

you’re off to cross another ridge

where green survives

and underbrush

is there for your taking,

fuel to keep you going

as in your wake

ash devils whirl,

waiting

for my tall and blackened trunks to fall.

 

I remember when I was

a young and healthy forest

with headdresses

a thousand shades of green.

When humans came to visit

and wildlife, large and small

browsed and rested in my shade—.

 

All is deadly silent now

with no birds to sing

for they have flown away.

I miss the squirrel’s chatter

for he, too, has gone, or worse

has burned.

No more the frightened doe

crashes through the underbrush.

You burned my heart

when you attacked.

 

But what is that I see,

buried partially in the ash?

It is a cone,

opened by the heat of your passing,

and there another, and another.

I do believe, there is promise

in that minute speck of green.

I bow my scarred and blackened head

and fall to my knees before you.

 

Oh, seed of life,

my thanks to you,

for with you lies the hope

that in the distant future,

I will live again,

be born again,

a new forest on this ridge—

 

Friend, Fire,

you destroyed my sick and ailing body

only to renew

and bring me back

in all my former glory.

A thick and stately forest,

nurtured by

Earth, air, water, and yes, fire,

for you, too, are part

of the promise

of renewal

of the future.

Destruction in the heat of summer,

all dying in the Autumn,

sleeping through the winter snows

until,

in the spring,

the cones of life expand and open

and the cycle begins anew.

 

Vi Jones

©June 2007