Yellow sky, pale as a breath,
crescendos into flames running the rim of earth.
Pitch silhouettes of cottonwood trees
ripple against the solar flare.
Only the dark backs of things are visible on the scrim of searing light.
Sun, descending, is our fleeting temple,
a call to prayer for every memory in every cell,
catching hold of our collective breath
for the minutes until cool of dark springs up around us.
We return to our restless bodies.
© 2011, Debra Shirley