THE FIRE TREE

It must have slipped my mind
On the last edge of summer.
Pure awe for a vision foreseen
But now clutches from behind.

Your leaves are your flowers,
Trifling flames that race up
The little soggy green stalks
That hold your desires.

When did you turn crimson?
It must have been when,
Because no one could disprove,
Not a being was rational.

Who gave your guise of scarlet?
I muster it was them who,
As no logic can abjure,
Were consumed by the orthodox.

Make haste, fine fire tree!
Your diaphanous fragments of ruby
Race down in a soundless dance
Halfway a cold, windy June.

Though now burgundy, they still glow.
Wet greens will feed themselves,
Rubber wheels that tread on dry grays
Will perhaps be most perturbed.

It was a mess, yet for me it was beauty.
And I dare not impart a word ---
I will let your self stay beneath yourself
Until the next edge of summer pulls over. #

photo credit: LDLanham