It's awful, these wildfires. I had never been to California until two years ago, when I took an October road trip with my father--driving from San Diego to Los Angeles in yellow Mustang convertible. The pictures of those landscapes now flattened by ash goes beyond devastation; it's sacrilege, damn it.
So I've been trying to write about fire. But today I found a poem at Alice Blue Seven called "The Fire Cycle," by Zachary Schomburg (and courtesy of Tony Tost). And I thought: yes.
I don't need to write a fire poem. It's been written--and written really damn well. That's a high compliment (embedded with arrogance, I know). You should go read all of Mr. Schomburg's stuff--"The Ghost Age is also amazing. Go on! Get out of here!