June 30, 2008
By Jeva Lange, Redmond, WA

The hills blossom with fires.

Simultaneously they alight, both obedient magentas and
unruly reds.
They thread gold through their fingers
and close their silver eyes.

My breath is white against the black night
and such simplicity is pale compared to the palette below me.
Shards of fire trickle into the sky and melt,
becoming stars,
an impossibility that is achingly honest.

The trees smolder in darkness
and blaze when their shadow-tethers pull them towards tomorrow.

On the roof I watch this frozen eternity,
and wait for my chance to burn.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Parkland Book