A foolish word.
As if flame could be tamed.
As if we can contain the burn,
no matter our idioms
As if damage can be controlled.
As if burning always hurts.

Tonight the drama will unspool
on local television,
jerky aerials of orange blazes,
the ashen faces of helmeted men.

Miles away,
the story video never tells:
smoke in her evening gown—
a setting sun—trailing
skirts through the common
neighborhoods of cypress
and buttonwood.

They bend their knees before her.
They reach out their long fingers to touch
her curative hem.