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Under the Fire Tree
Outside my stained window, the fire tree waits,
Its orange‑red blossoms stir some old memories.
Each petal feels like a spark of summer,
Back when freedom was almost as easy as breathing.
We laughed, sweating, without thinking,
Restless, a little wild, completely ours.
Our high-pitched voices rolled like playful thunder,
Growing louder beneath that burning canopy.
Prickly heat settled harshly on our skin,
Sticky hair pulling the long afternoon together.
It felt like the world slowed down just for us,
Stretching from one golden hour to the next.
Now the seasons turn, and the years drift quietly,
But those blossoms still find their way back to me,
A living flame that does not forget,
Still rooted in the ember-warm heart of that tree.
