the flames at sunrise

he sets the trees aflame and rushes past
to follow sirens wailing on his long periphery—
but she will sit to watch the fires burn
for days or lives, perhaps
awaiting his return, or maybe
in silence just
to skip a dangerous light across her eyes.
who can tell? we who cannot even comfort
those who mourn: no, grief is stubborn, hot
like the tail of a burning pine.
pebbles dance upon the water
in early afternoon, and children never think
of longing, and grief, and
the burning trees upon their far horizons.

January 2020