Scorched Soul

Like the earth around me, struggling to nourish its thirsty roots,
and the animals who come into the backyard to take off with our blueberries to quench their thirst,
my soul seeks relief from the heat that is the blaze of your art.

In colours of red and orange, their fire sears my bones as my heart tries to gain control.
The clear sky of its grasp is melting my resolve, there is nowhere to hide from its pull,
as their flames warm and entice my gypsy heart, I find mercy in the fierceness of your eagle eyes.

There is no way around the drumbeat of its reach, this red fire is burning old fears to the ground.
I know his branding of my soul is a way to 
give my captive wings their strength and courage to soar above the smoke below.

 I surrender to this fire that sets my poet's journey free, from which new songs and poems like flowers grow all around me,
as your eagle eyes watch my heart and soul make a path out of blackened steps and stones.

With a soul scorched in agony and tears, I walk on beyond the chanting fire and its joyous rage.
Like a dragon that fell asleep I  soar once more in an open sky with an eagle as a seasoned guide,
whose scorched wingtips let me know you are no stranger to the fires of the human soul.


Trudi Ralston.
A muse is a terrible gift to waste.
for D. D.