FRORE RIME

Oh, the irony of a cold November forest

on fire flickering chill reds and yellows

under a mesmerized sun and an iceberg

sky as dry lava tumbles across our path.

We run to see, and gather in grim impotence

against our fate. The wind whispers,

“this is nothing.” We freeze in the flames and

look away, “Not our first rodeo,” pause…

but that’s not our first lie, either.

When the ash gray of sentient fingers scrape

against gentle breezes, the empty canopy’s

splayed neurons pray they have finished with

the pyrotechnics and can settle into the earth

now all the excitement is over. It is time

We stop and settle into place, pull inward and climb

the darkness through a long night of simple dreams

and tattered memories, to fade in a slow, vague

mist until the conscious sun returns, laden with

light, acorns, nuts, and fruit.

Or doesn’t.