The Forest is Burning in the Palm of My Hand
My son comes running across acres of grass.
He is twenty-seven years old.
He is eleven years old. He is
four years old.
He turns his hand up to show me
the distant inner glow, smoke
drifting from him.
He wants to see so I lift
my hand to the old paths
where fire often danced;
plateaus of desolation inside my fist.
My son comes running
across acres of grass.
He is four
years old. He
is eleven years old.
He is twenty-seven
years old.
by Lou Lipsitz
from Seeking the Hook
Signal books, 1997
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