Waves of wind have distorted the meadow…
trees like a television screen gone bad
from time and well misuse. A fire blown
through
with vast violence, administering coal
to the misbehaved trees, dying the
ground
red. the fire hath past, the once
billowing
smoke, saturated the sky with grey
thoughts
of worry discomfort and loss. life
brews
behind the scenes and trees,
slowly toiling,
devising, trying to quill the silence.
Burning, seeding, sprouting,
rooting growing,
playing, laughing, learning,
reaching… growing,
planning a revenge for their lost
parents.
Lacked in numbers, ever strong by
size
the young trees face the inferno
again.
Administering coal to the forest
staining the ground a lasting red
with sap.
Birches burn fast and never fall
to slow.
They come tumbling down to choke the fire,
extinguishing it amid the trees
leaves.
Standing tall, victory is eminent.
What was once taller than the
birch forest
and as innocent as the devil, fire
lay wasted among its fallen victims.
A celebration of the new foliage
proceeds the victory but comes to
soon...
lightning strikes, the devil resurrected.
The inferno gives waste to the
meadow.
The cycle, never to have a victor.
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