Nighttime in this empty house,
All form has it’s shelf life.
These bodies, that tree, the mountain I rest on or the greatest ocean,
will pass away into the Light
Including the Earth one day.
The opposite of death is life illusion repeats over and over.
The opposite of death is birth,
Life greater than passing forms,
Can’t you see that?
Sleep came late that night,
Awakened abruptly by my barking little dogs,
The front door being pounded,
My name carries through the dark.
“They spread so fast,” I heard her panicked voice from the street.
“Where is the fire”? I ask moving across the deck.
The young one points down our forested street
As she jumps into his older silver compact and disappears.
Too fatigued to get excited,
I walk to assess the midnight threat.
Stunning marigold fireworks shoot above the Ponderosa pines-
A fireman struggles with his heavy canvas hose,
A nightgowned neighbor runs by frantically yelling,
“Wake them up, wake everybody up.”
A house, tucked in the woods, fully engulfed,
Ephemerality making her dramatic point.
The house had exploded,
Roof lifting off, disintegrating and swirling around,
Scatttered perfectly intact completely blackened leaves our morning gift,
I am told the occupants somehow survived.
How the forest hadn’t ignited remains a grateful mystery,
We were saved and remain in this world.
What the fuck am I doing here?