There is fire in everything,
Or so the saint believed. And I believe the saint:
Nothing stays the same
in the shimmering heat
Of dusk during Indian summer in the country.
Out here it is possible to perceive
That those brilliant red welts
Are like a drunken whip
tling across a horse’s back,
And that round ball flaring in the trees
Is like a coal sizzling
n the mouth of a desert prophet.
Someone has called the orange leaves
The colorful palmprints of God
Someone has called the banked piles
The handprints of the underworld
Gathering at our ankles and burning
We have to bear the sunset deep inside us.
I don’t believe in ultimate things.
I don’t believe in the inextinguishable light
I don’t believe that we will be lifted up
One incandescent dusky world is all there is.
But I like this vigilant saint
Who stood by the river at nightfall
And saw the angels descending
As living creatures of fire,
1500 years in his wake,
I can almost imagine
his disappointment and joy
When the first cool wind
When the soothing blue rain begins