The Gift

Every summer my wife plants celosia in the yard,
a flower whose name is Ancient Greek 
for burning. Their colorful torches 
remind me of other fires: those of ill will,

bonfires of books, and women kindled 
simply because they knew something 
that others feared. It’s like the gift 
Prometheus brought down and handed on. 

They say it was fire. It wasn’t. It was light 
and learning. But the man he gave it to 
ignited that gift to scorch all those who came 
asking simply to huddle by it for warmth.

Ripening

A dream of flowers left me breathless
for fields of clover and wine, 
but stirred my allergy for indifference. 

It was a handful of grain and smoke
tossed from the corner,
where a finch perched on a trashcan rim. 

The sirens passed us, trailing a haze
of apple skins burning.
Everyone believed this was a sign. 

Standing in the red wake, dry as a corpse,
we all turned home, trying
to peel open our eyes and finally see.

Michael T. Young