The Weld

 
Blister me on your celestial tour
and force me to yearn for your foe
when this mother reduces me to puddles
and hunting elusive shades,
I long:

I long for the twiggy fingers
on bony branches that scratch up
at the greys and whites;
trees on their knees reaching for heaven
hoping for seasonal mercy,
I long for the sharp wind
that cuts the air
and cuts whatever's too bold or stupid.

You may dazzle me when the mood fits
when you're sitting low
and gracing skyscapes with reds and oranges
as you set or rise to kiss our surface,
but beauty never quenched
but drowned me in your fire's fumes.