Hope. A vision.
My folded hands,
tree limbs touching

far outweigh
the raging fire,
the burning root

that no one sees.
My pills, the singing birds
a false freedom.

What I wish.
A quelling of fire

ready to blaze
at any moment.
Stop. Go away.

Hikers walk on by.
They see
the canopy thriving.

It cheers me up.
Seasons come.
Seasons go.

Hope. A vision.
This I know.