California is burning
to the ground.
The Santa Ana Winds blow
from the abyss of the Pacific,
scattering its red teeth
of biting flame
across green sable hillsides.
From the sky
the ground is carpeted
with poinsettia,
corollas of fire
surrounding fluorescent ashes
of walls and beds.
There is a limited warranty
on each life.
One can see the rain engrave
spines of the canyons
where nothing can be built again.
Who will return to this devastation?
Erect the madness of hope
and put up new walls?
Dreams, chasing angels
in the wind of the Santa Ana
untouched by fire
and catastrophe passed away,
again.