Wraith-gray wisps
cloak the evergreens—
smoke tendrils from the east
choking songbirds
and creatures scurrying
amongst damp leaves.
Helios, in his aureate chariot,
can hardly be seen
Behind the dense shroud
of cinder-cloud, his gleam
reduced to a feeble wink
of hazy-hued reds and pinks.
Yet still the forest breathes.
Each tree inhales sooty breeze
and exhales wind unsinged
by distant flame—
these forests of the west
are strangers to fire’s
calamitous kiss.
Here, where the land
remains sodden all year,
and moss blankets earth,
they know fire only as
a stifling blur.
But this greenness
does not make
the forests naive
or unafraid of burn;
it only makes them wiser,
for the west’s forests learn
they must root themselves deep
and relish the rains,
for one day
they, too,
may kiss
the east’s flames.
pm poetry 