“Driving Through Fire Woods”

poetry

The sign reads “Blue Ridge Parkway.”
The speed limit says 45, but it feels
much better to push 65. Gives the
illusion of driving through fire.

Tree trunks and limbs, fallen twigs,
underbrush; tinder and kindling of
all sizes are they. The leaves blaze
gold and brown and crimson and yellow
and orange; tendrils of the flame. The
road is black and grey and white; coal
and firewood and ash.

Behind you, the wind churns up jovial
leaf sprinkles as you drive. Up above,
some tree branches crackle and let out
puffs of emberleaves that wade through
smoke-grey sky and come to rest on earth.

As you drive through the flame you look
to one side and see the valley blazing.
The river that swims through it refuses
to extinguish the inferno. You look to
the other side and see the cliff zoom by.
Its warm-looking rocks and bushes and
trees want to reach into the car and
hug you.

Ahead in the distance you see an eagle.
It looks down at its dominion and sings,
“My kingdom is a torch. Let it shine, let
it burn!” The season is autumn — you’re driving through
fire woods, and you’re smiling, and you know: this is the only
time in anyone’s life that being engulfed in flames
ought to feel cool.

***
In marvel at autumns, for the cool warmth of their colors.

— — —

Originally published in Washed Over…Or, Things Dedicated