The house stood for a long time.

Till the dawn smelled of smoke.

Now an empty lot, where once a house.

Those walls,

now gone.

Oh fire, you whimsical and mercurial being,

we think we control you,

like we think we control our lives.

We turn on the stove and feel, safe.

But you,

you mischievous Pan,

you lie waiting, waiting,

for just the right spark.

 

© by Dan DeMarle 2009