with the fire of martyrs,
with the licking flames of ancient
judgment. Gusting
maple red, and glowing
the zealous sun overflows
a wind seared sky.
Clouds circle the heavens,
like wild white geese
who fly against
this ardent azure sky.
On the seventh day
the trumpets sound
in Jericho. A shout rings out,
a sign, a frost, leaves crumble
from the trees and fall. For
a moment they were green
and growing, grasping still
to oak and walnut, poplar,
ash. They clung as though
the planet burned,
like Rome,
like the bush of Moses,
like the Saints at Pentecost.
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