The Burning

Fires in the distant sky light earth in orange blaze and glow
like ember’s breathing in the night in pulsing rhythm, hot and slow,
and passersby look down and know
that dull grey blanket is not snow;
a summer's snow's not rife.

Liquid rock drops down like rain, brimstone tears scream in descent,
and all they touch bursts into flame and all they don’t is circumvent.
The burning is magnificent
and watchers know it’s Heaven sent,
but grieve the ugly strife.

The jutting in the distant sky, reduced to rubble, ash, debris;
around the fallen mountain rings the remnant forest, mighty trees,
but passersby look down and see
a seedling stands defiantly -
its silence states the old decree,
“With death springs forth new life."