The day
The sky turned orange in California
And a six-year-old child
Died in the flames,
It poured and thundered in Florida,
And I quietly decided
That I’ll never have another child.

My first,
Now only,
Still recoils
At the sound of thunder.

I think the kindest thing
I could possibly do
Is spare another brand new soul
From having to try and
Rise from the ashes.

I pray
For the mothers breathing ashes,
Wish them reprieve
From the thunder in their chests.

I pray
For Our Mother,
Who art in flames.

Wish her winds of healing
And rains of change.