When the fire pressed close to our home,
so close that I could see how amber bleached
red, narcotic in its beauty, I thought about the
roof and the trees, all the things that would
feed the flames, the advice we had ignored.
Why didn’t we replace the timber shingles with
asphalt or aluminum? Consider clay tiles. Why
did we allow the branches of the upswept pines
to rub their combustible bodies against our
exterior walls? Why did we think we were safe.
Sometimes it seems that we are kindling for
this world, our hearts and hopes lit and snuffed,
the forces around us indifferent to the crackling
of our bodies. But
when a fire burns
it changes the structure of things, transforming
into new substances – gases, vapor, char. The
process releases heat and light, sets the world
aglow. Some may die, some survive. But let’s
just say, let’s imagine, that those who survive
become flames themselves, creating open spaces
that let sunlight reach the forest floor.
Wouldn’t that be
sublime?
