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Wildfire
Moon dismantled,
sun a red disk, reflecting
sea a rusty mudflat,
hot wind hollowing
canyons, hills littered
with dust, ash, soot,
chaparral, squirrels, palm trees,
shingles, Chevrolets, dictionaries,
wedding dress, quilt stitched
by a grandmother fifty years ago,
the bones of those who stayed,
the hopes of those who fled.
Close the windows.
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This poem previously appeared in 10×3 Plus
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About the Author: Ruth Bavetta writes at a messy desk overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Her poems have appeared in Rattle, Nimrod, Tar River Review, North American Review and many other journals and anthologies. Her books are Fugitive Pigments (Future Cycle Press, 2013) Embers on the Stairs (Moontide Press, 2014,) Flour Water Salt (Future Cycle Press, 2016.) and No Longer at This Address (Aldritch Books 2017.) She likes the light on November afternoons, the music of Stravinsky, the smell of the ocean. She hates pretense, fundamentalism and sauerkraut.
More By Ruth Bavetta:
Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Wildfire in Simi Valley” (2018)
As It Ought To Be 
I love the progression from the harm to the natural world to loss of personal possessions. The last two stanzas make this a poem that will stay in memory. I’ll be sharing this, Ruth. I love sauerkraut, but we agree on most things.
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Very poignant indeed.
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