Red, red
as saffron,
like torrid love
consuming our fragility
until there is nothing,
nothing left but dust
and ash and the memory
of before – from white
to gray; now clouded,
now alive.

Red, red
as fire,
like molten steel
waiting to be cast –
what we’ve always needed,
but never had the courage
to do ourselves –
against the wind and rain
and carelessness we know
we sometimes suffer.

Plumage, red
as sunrise,
like royal blood
made divine by right
and nothing less –
a cinder, growing hotter
every day since
arising from that moment
we’d thought we might regret;
a spark, a start.


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