Fireworks (An Autumn Prayer)

The street is slick with rain 
as I make my way through the neighborhood 
past shuttered windows and closed doors. 
I’m headed to the place where the road bends 
for a visit. 

It’s been a while since we talked. 

Leaves skid dryly across the road to my right 
like rustling stalks of corn, 
like a letter as it’s opened. 
I watch them tumble end over end, 
the detritus of some recent cannon blast 
from a war that someone lost – 
flower petals at a funeral. 
Under a steel-grey sky, 
blackbirds wheel up from the pavement, whirling 
like an omen. 

I’ve already started the conversation 
because we’ve only got so much time. 
The skies above me are weeping 
and while the rainwater is gentle against the earth 
it’s still a goodbye. 

We’ve been here so many times. 
Why doesn’t it get easier?  

I’ve arrived at the tree line 
and said only a fragment of what there is to say. 
My eyes are on my shoes. 
When I finally look up, my part of the conversation 
and that old, familiar ache 
are cut short. 

In the distance, 
through the curtain of rain, 
I see your trees. 

Who set your forest on fire? 

The leaves of oaks and aspens 
are going up in flames, 
sputtering and sizzling in the downpour. 
They light up like kerosene lanterns, 
then burst open like fireworks, 
spraying ash on the sidewalks. 
The blaze crackles with livid color 
like a neon sign, 
cherry red and burnt orange 
and liquid gold. 
Branches above me disappear 
in a maelstrom of light. 
Under the edge of the inferno, 
leaves careen between tree trunks 
like dragonflies in wind, flung outward 
into empty space 
like paper airplanes. 

I start looking around desperately. 
Where have you gone? 
Where, at a time like this? 

And then, 
between the trees and tangled brush, 
I see you. 
You’re running headlong through the wall of heat 
with a box of matches in hand, 
striking them one by one 
against the tree trunks 
and flinging them upward 
into the boughs. 

You started this fire. 
You’re launching these fireworks, 
torching your trees, 
sending your forest up in smoke. 

Through the din of the explosions 
I catch the sound of your voice. 
I thought you’d be crying this time of year, 
but you’re laughing like a little kid 
as you light fuses, 
grinning ear to ear through the gunpowder air 
as you catch my eye, 
saying, “Watch this!” 
So I do. 

I watch until the blasts have died away 
and the branches are guttering like candle flames 
in the rain. 
I inhale the smell of burnt paper. 
A smile flickers on my lips, kindled 
by your bewildering laughter. 
And then I turn and head for home, 
chuckling in disbelief. 
It’s quiet again. 
I fish for words, open my mouth to speak – 

The wind kicks up 
and another volley booms from the eaves of the wood, 
only this time the flames are all around me, 
golden shrapnel whizzing through the air 
and drifting down like snowflakes. 

This is downright excessive. 

Dragons are circling overhead 
on wings like distant thunder. 
They flare their nostrils, belching sparks, 
dancing and diving together, churning 
like waves in a storm. 
I’ve seen enough firework displays 
to know a finale when I see one. 
A lump forms in my throat 
because here in the rain you’re pulling out all the stops. 
This is your send-off, isn’t it? 
You want me to pay attention. Be still. 
There’s only so much wood to burn. 

And I need to take my shoes off. 

It’s still raining 
as I trudge back through the neighborhood 
past shuttered windows and closed doors. 
The debris of your fireworks are plastered across the pavement, 
soaked in rainwater. 
My ears are still ringing 
and I think I know now why you asked me to visit 
on a day like this. 
You wanted to go out with a bang, 
and you wanted me to see it. 

Thanks for the invitation.