Breath held; had the same been compelled by the fire,
We would not be salvaging after the fire.
A struck match, a lightning bolt, nature itself—
Even mountains are not immune to fire.
Incense leans against the stained-glass windows.
A cathedral choked by smoke and yet no fire.
Floating in a mist while sailing as a mist,
Dawn lobbies the squall for its campaign: fire.
Embers from burnt rope ends scatter like phantoms.
Embers are tears that repent in a fire.
Hunger leaps like a barren suicide
Convinced the corpse-dried landscape was lapped by fire.
Pools of unfit water rot at the gravesite,
A place of ashes for those who spark fire.
The candle winks above the burnt-out wick.
It sticks out its tongue and licks the wax with fire.
The fuming sun inseminates the hillside,
Admonishing it for playing with fire.
Only a fool thinks a scarecrow comes to life
Until it dances and shrinks away from fire.
A wind cleaving to water waves and takes wing
To smite an island dark, its only light fire.
Were it not for the fine words of Service,
I would not have dined before an olive fire.
The unrighteous offer fire christened strange.
The righteous can withstand God’s consuming fire.