Holy Fire
The hue and cry of autumn stopped us many times today
As we drove, translucent bronze water plowed familiar furrows
Down canyons of light past slopes
Of predominant gold shot here and there with the blood of Christ
Shaded roadside shoots worshiped, bowing, leaves hoary
Others lay broad and yellow upon fir boughs,
Christmas tree prescient
We rolled slowly, rustling through one gilt portico
Carpeted, wall-papered, and sun-charged, evoking heaven
You had me cut cold, fragrant, leafy branches
I laid the stiff, swishing fingers lightly in our trunk
And you bouqueted them, altars in the living room
Holy fire inviting four-alarm praise sacrifices hour by hour
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