I usually don't say anything before the poem, but a short note: This is the third time I have somehow managed to catch myself afire...rather forboding eh? Oh, by the way...My dad was a fireman..Forestry division Captain. That is where I learned to love the forest and its many creatures, He was always bringing home a deer, rabbit, chipmonk or squirrel for us to raise until it was old enough to return to its natural habitat...

The Fire


The fire bloomed like a flower,
Red and golden,
Flaring in yellow petals,
So bright it hurt my eyes…

I was entranced,
Captured,
Spellbound,
Feet frozen,
Mind working,
Heart thinking…

So this is it,
Should I let it burn?

It was strange…
How I felt,
I brushed it away,
Like an annoying fly-

But it fought me,
Trying to climb up my shirt,
And I was…

Captured,
By strange thoughts,
Feet frozen,
Mind working too fast,
Heart thinking…

Should I let it bloom?

There was no pain,
Not then,
Only later,
Seconds really,
When they ran to me,
And tried to smother it,
Pat it out with their hands…

I turned from them,
Ran a little distance,
Still-
Spell bound by its beauty,
By a thought that crept into my heart,
Thinking quickly,
Should I…

Let it burn?

They surrounded me,
Ripped off my shirt,
Covered me with his jacket,
Kept screaming,
“Stand Still!”

But my mind was working,
My heart wondering,
Should I have let it…

Burn?

They kept asking,
“Are you okay?”
But I really felt no pain,
Not then,
Though later,
The blisters formed,
And bloomed like flowers,
In a too early Spring,

Yellow and Red,
My fingers and stomach,
Where they pressed their hands,
Trying to pluck the flower
That bloomed and grew too soon,
In the early Spring of me…

My fingertips red and raw,
I was haunted by that thought,
Tried to write about it,
But I couldn’t type,
Or hold a pen,

All I could do was think,
How beautiful that flower was,
How quickly it turned full bloom,
And just as suddenly,
Died…

He asked me,
The one I loved,
What was I thinking?
But he knew the answer already,
The secret in my dark heart-

So he said instead,
“Why did you live?”

But I couldn’t answer,
Not then,
My lips were scorched,
By that flower’s gentle kiss,
Plucked so harshly by hands,
That claimed to love only me…

And I remained silent,
Until much later,
When I knew he was sleeping,
And thought me safe,

Only then could I answer,
And I traced my fingertips,
Raw and blistered,
Over his soft lips,
And whispered softly,

You.