Trees are like birds are like poems are like fire
August was hot.
From every mountain peak
you could see the fires burning.
Sometimes the wind would shift
and the smoke would wreathe
the hills like morning mist.
In the grasslands of the Okanagon
the grass is dry, fields of wildflowers
burned brown, scorched by the same sun
that has driven me to seek the only
available shelter for miles-
a small stand of ponderosa pine.
Now it is May
and already the forests
are burning again.
Trees are like poems;
both need much nurturing
before they can blossom,
and both can be destroyed forever
by a careless match.