Fireweed

The essence of smoking evergreen awake me 

from the depths of my dreams. It's the whir of 

crackling, of lumber ignited, that reminds me: 

even trees hold their breath.

Lumberjacks will come back ten years from now 

to reveal the fire scars of their past.

My wounds lie hidden so deep beneath my skin; 

my hands: they will not let you in. But my eyes 

are a forest; you could get lost in them.

Clear cutting is the greatest trauma in nature 

only exceeded by major volcanic eruptions.

I am a patchwork; I am broken pieces stitched 

together. I often feel like letting go: to let my 

molten anguish or blazing fear eradicate what is 

to make room for what will be.

Fireweed is often the first plant to flower 

following a wild fire or forest clearing. From 

their flowers, honeybees produce a nectar so 

pleasing it's likened to the delicacy of champagne.

 

Hope blossoms from ashes.

        If only I could exhale.