by Liona T. Burnham
No sounds but wind and fire,
no lights but stars,
maybe a violin singing in the wilderness.
My father dreamed of distant woods.
He would split kindling, the crack
fracturing bird-song for a moment;
maybe he would design windmills and read,
feet up, by the crackling fire,
my mother nearby.
Yet every day my father donned
his gray pin-striped suit,
selected a paisley or striped tie and
cinched it up tightly
before rushing out the door.
Soon, the eyes in the sky
will be watching us
even when we sunbathe
naked in the backyard.
There might soon be nowhere
to go to escape.
The forest fires burn us out
of the wilderness,
along with the animals.
We’ll be like the deer:
bounding across highways
in the dark because
we don’t know
what else to do.
Liona T. Burnham’s poems appear or are forthcoming in Sky Island Journal, Infinite Scroll, Jerry Jazz Musician, ONE ART, Stone Poetry Quarterly, and more. She teaches English and journalism to community college students. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and three daughters.