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I made my home in the mountain’s breast
Where the stars lord distant and
Faint as the wind-blown courtesy
Of a summer breeze
Tonight, the blood moon’s lonely marrow
Glooming over the low-hung stratus
While the valley below, dead as mercury
Having bore the autumn droughts
And conflagrations
Nightjars pen the night air
Then castle themselves in the pine copses
To baron over that silence which
Slaloms the dead wicks of a forest
Where the fires marched
The ground, now immolated
Gray and gone as wasp paper
Stows the waiting seeds
Among the embers who burrowed
After the death of their god
The seed hoping to be
The fire refusing to die
What grows must burn
What burns must grow
And as I made my home in the mountain’s breast
I have burned those parts of me
Which have ceased
I am seeded by the waiting dreams
That shall come when
The fire goes