Little Fire

// W. Luther Jett

It was only a little fire
meant, perhaps, merely to singe
the edges of the written page
or spark a torch to pierce
the forest gloom.

There was smoke on the horizon
and it grew
closer until our lungs were choked,
our eyes weeping, red without end.

Preserve us from the slumber of the just
and let the rains rain down.
Let sleepless nights become
our sacrament.

The palace is burning.
Strike the calendar from the wall
and let us arise and go.

Across the way the sugar maple
blazes under the bluest sky.

Imagine that winter will pass.

Imagine that a year from now
the maple will still be standing.