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
kindling

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.

Time.
Hope. A vision.
This I know.