The low flames,
fragile yet determined,
dance to avoid the winds.
New and pure,
they remind us
of the yellow-orange of a morning ray
or the last of an evening sunbeam.
The distinctive color
shows us the world's innocence,
but warns us
that flames can become destructive.
The fire
should teach us to hope,
but channeling our rage
only burns the trees
that taught us how to climb.
YOU ARE READING
Reflections on a Window
PoetryUnedited. Raw poetry from the mind of an aspiring author. When it comes to me, it will find its home here. Types and forms of poems will vary.
