The Worst Is Still To Come
Poem By Lori Messenger
And consort with me
You breathe the ash
Of fire at my arrival
heavy brush, dry conditions, steep
and rugged terrain and rapid rate of spread.
In this curious nightmare
You speak from your hot alphabet
To make my eyelids turn to stone
Six-foot chaparral, heavy brush and grass.
You are the stranger
That engineers the chaos
You invite the thunder.
Today's observed behavior:
Extreme with a rapid rate of spread and a lot of spotting.
The worst is still to come.