The door slammed. I tended a fire,
a crackling of acer leaves,
a bonfire of flaming herberis,
camellias, azaleas, living flames.

I gave what the garden gave:
shrubs, sycamore, long grass,
white-faced houses, wooden
benches, laughter from the shade.

Into the conflagration I flung
myself, petals, language
drifting from the page, not
belonging, longing to live. Here.