Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.
So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.
Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.
Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.
Naomi Shihab Nye
(from Words Under the Words: Selected Poems)
2 comments:
I miss having fire this time of year...living in a situation where there isn't any. Love the smell, not to mention the beauty of transformation of wood products which took so long to grow, as they give off radiance and colors, sounds and currents of air. So I particularly thank you for this image and poem!
What an incredible photo! Love it... Quite a conflagration with fireworks (little sparks) and all - burning away the dross. A fire of alchemy - transmuting life :) Nice post...
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