How the Roses Happen

Entry for "Matter" competition
 
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So they take this life-giving  
liquid,  
and add a few percentage points  
of lovely poison,  
 
cool on the hands; this is an inferno  
in muted glass: it glows  
and lights a fire so fine  
you'd swear your body was kindling.  
 
A fire, indeed - in the lack of breath  
and breezy head; made feathery  
by a sudden stop of wind over the landscape -  
you get thin little thrills; you soar, and your hands shake -  
 
before they are bloodied in pine on the ground -  
before all the shadows and trees stare you down,  
yes, moments before the sweet contact is made  
and that forest-borne, air-hungry light starts to fade,  
 
the height underneath you shouts hell yet to pay;  
shouts miles of the thunder  
in rose accolades.