A woman of fire

 

There’s a heavy breeze, the distant wood crackling.

The sky is reddish-black; the stars barely shine.

Winds gather speed while the sun slips into dusk—

a humid gust snaps: Mother Earth has spoken again.

A woman of fire

She is forged from flame, descending gracefully from the heavens.

Arms outstretched, wrapped in reddish-orange embers,

she stands poised in a strapless gown—black and gold,

accented with crimson echoes of her birthright.

Her body hovers above the Earth, arms open in embrace;

blue-tinted eyes gaze downward toward Mother Earth.

Yet mind and soul ache, and she begins to see:

every whisper of wind, every snap of flame shapes an answer.

A sudden shift—wind thickens, steam ascends;

she gathers the warmth to her heart, yet the heart weeps.

A woman of fire

Eyes closed, she listens to the wind’s hush,

to sparks arcing across the darkening sky.

Is this her pain alone,

or does the sorrow of others entwine with her own?

She holds the hurt and tries to turn it into light,

but even fire sometimes needs help.

The wind falls silent; every ache feels personal.

Watching those who once spoke down to her,

she has grown strong, her tongue fierce.

Not everyone can endure her flames.

Some understand—her story is therapy.

Others judge, ready to defend themselves.

Her heart returns to the absence of her father,

a daily ache that longs to heal yet struggles.

Her flames rise in reverence: a guard, a shield.

She bows her head; tears fall—

with every offered tissue comes a hug.

A woman of fire

Gentle, sweet of soul,

she carries too much pain.

Never mistake her for foolish;

treat her with respect.

She is forged from fire,

descending from the heavens with a smile in her eyes.

Arms open, dressed in midnight black and molten gold,

aglow with the red of living flame.