THE TREES ARE ON FIRE!

   by Dick Bakken
 
Let my son die! He was alive.
I have become you: I cannot teach my boy
the bear and the eagle. You yank ivy
off gravestones, slash grass
from ghost rests.

It’s no day for a man to bow. Heart
knifed twice in this bright bite of violet.
My son is dirt. I cannot dance
the eagle. When grandfather stepped for my
father, he hurtled blood
flames shrieking
shrills you can’t cry.

Tendons draw legs up
earth pulls them down. Arms
pump a shirt free of slacks. My tie
flows back past an ear. Lungs suck-in this
glacial fall. Furious fuchsia seared red
flares out the chill. Twigs crack under my sole
sharp as shots.

I am Mule Deer! Spruce smacks
my breast as I leap. I’m alive till I die
sailing this siren splash slapped so yellow-orange.

The trees are on fire! Grandfather pranced
his eagle three suns before those legs
would sleep. There is nothing
but this fierce air sucked
deep into pinks and
that crisp burst
ablaze in
the dying
limbs.