from "Wanting to Know the Constellations"

III

What is it made of, the stuff of stars,
that it can cavort and flicker
in perfect harmlessness through the trees

while in its earthly form
two miles from this campground
flames like Red Dwarfs climbed in abandon
over the crest of hills, rushing
down slope to try and torch the town?

I imagine the person who set that blaze
watched the fire race down,
and I wondered at the hot desire—
the anger or loneliness— driving
his imitation of eternal heat.

What story, all backward, burned inside him?
What myth, untold, wagged its red tongues
and ran screaming through the trees?

Copyright © 2003 Eloise Klein Healy All rights reserved
from Passing
Red Hen Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission