I had the immense privilege of writing a poem for the St. Albert Mental Health Walk, which took place May 6, 2022. Due to illness, I was unable to attend the event to perform, but the organizers were kind enough to still read the aloud.
Wildfire
Your forest is burning
and you think it’s your fault.
Did you quench the campfire’s coals?
Or did you let an errant ember escape,
catch on grass and spark?
More likely it was caused by an unlucky
lightning strike from storms thrashing
your canopy. But you ignore that
possibility, prefer the cause to be
something you can control.
Shoulder the blame.
Your forest is burning
and you lie, tell others
it is on purpose. Prescribed.
Claim to be clearing leaf litter
and groundwood, a cautionary step
to prevent future, unchecked fires.
People pretend to believe you.
Few do.
Your forest is burning
and it is scary. No one hears
your screams for help over the roar
of flames licking up your wooden limbs.
If they did, wouldn’t the scorching heat
of backdraft chase them away?
This fire blazes so hot it is cold,
blisters you with searing chill,
yet even that pain is preferable
to the numbness that follows.
You watch your woods smolder
to ash. Resigned.
Your forest is burning
and you do not have to put it out
on your own. We want to help.
We survived the devastation
of our own private wildfires.
And yes, some will not understand
the severity, pour down pitiful palmfuls
of sand and believe they’ve done their part,
but most will bring water. We will shrink
the fire until it is manageable, contained
within a circle of stones where you can
monitor it, maybe heat your hands
on frigid days.
Your forest burned
and you are sad because
it was once so beautiful.
It still is – the charred trees
now a glowing obsidian wood.
What you lost will fertilize the soil.
Soon, the paintbrush blooms
of fireweed will open, coat your woods
in promising purple. Life will be
beautiful again. Just wait.
We will wait with you.
This is not the end,
it is an opportunity
to regrow.