We've Arrived At The Burning House

We've arrived at the burning house we once saw
at a distance while we meandered in
the beaming meadow. Honey brush strokes
now come at dawn as the purple sky retrieves,
but not before it threatens
the sun with retaliation. It's simply the nature of
the initiation of the fourth quarter. Here, in this place,
we're gently caressed by a brisk zephyr – and then brusquely
pulled down by our feet down into the earth's mighty grasp.
It's a reminder of the inevitable, of the imminent.
After the swaying cherry blossom blizzard,
we warned yet again of death's close proximity.

Mornings seem triumphant.
They seem to arrive early to one's salvation.
And as the swirling aroma of arabica suggests safety,
the impending stench of decay counteracts.
From the fire fall fleeting flecks of flowers
instead of ashes, and the ground looks majestic.
This house once knew fables and nursery rhythms by memory,
but it quickly learned spells and conjuring,
and now we're forced to sleep inside infernos.
But it isn't malicious, it keeps us unharmed.
It simply engulfs the structures June built.

The crackling is a requiem for the summer heat.
And although the halls, rooms and corners are ablaze,
it's oddly crisp inside. We wear fog as cardigans
as the deep hued sunset is billed for entertainment.
As we arrived, there was no need to knock, for
there was no door. The threshold seeped with
warm cider as to welcome us in, and so we
walked inside into the house's living room.
There, we all greeted one another
with glistening Hunter's Moon in our eyes.
We sat around and watched as the backdraft
came when the night arrived at 7 p.m.

We've arrived at the burning house we once saw
as Neapolitan ice cream dripped from our chins
while sitting on sweltering doorsteps. The
trees seem to plead for forgiveness as they
shed their leaves, dead soldiers scattered around
the battleground. We sit inside now, inside a
walled furnace, slowly allowing the grimacing
shadows to lead us in an ephemeral dance
to music only they can hear.