Trees on Fire: Poem for the 1991 Tunnel Hill Fire
by Hilary King
A blade of grass in its last black breath
blew the flame uphill.
I caught that scorching kiss. At my feet
a pile of my own tender.
I grew tall here on the hill. Hot and dry as home,
the canyon ringing with birdsong,
the road winding around shingled cottages
like ribbon round a finger.
In my branches, I held the afternoon light,
dappling our shadows.
I thought this springing in my leaves was
happiness at last. No.
This oil was loneliness, not catching fire
but spreading it.