The summer fires of aught eighteen - Bill Denham

[Larry Robinson]

 The summer fires of aught eighteen
 
How terrible the acrid air,
           how terrible the summer fires
           of aught eighteen—
           yet, what incredible beauty is there
 in the muted, late summer sun,
           casting a magenta-tinted light
 upon the structure I gaze at 
 each afternoon, sitting in my garden—
 this giant white oak—
           upon the column-like limbs, 
 stretching skyward, 
 whose light beige bark, now visible, 
 through openings among the leaves, 
 reflects an eerie, other worldly,
 deep, pink patina—
 as if the smoke-filled sky
 were the rose window
 of Chartres itself, at sunset—
 and the fires then become
 our own judgment day. 
 
- Bill Denham