On the great Cape of Africa, nature has the final word.
We are brought back to ourselves, whether we will or no,
and are smaller than the seeds that hide
when fire flashes through the underbrush, and catches all in a great wave of flame, a dangerously beautiful thing.
Such is this our time on earth.
We are startled like small creatures overtaken without warning,
in a conflagration uncalled for, unexpected,
beyond the reach of ordinary caution.
And nature, a dangerously beautiful thing, has the final word.
Without the fire there can be no lilies,
a primal certainty that stings with nature’s edge,
and hints of Spirit’s power, just the smallest whisper.
The trees succumb to melting love and nature has the final word.
And then the next season, green so fiercely bright it hurts the eyes
and fire lilies beautiful as flame itself.
On the great Cape of Africa we are brought back to ourselves
whether we will or no.
We call it love, a poor attempt at naming.
Like fire visited upon the forest
so life burns,
flashes through the underbrush, uncalled for, unexpected.
We are brought to our true selves, whether we will or no,
overtaken by this dangerously beautiful and living flame of change.
We call it Love, a poor attempt at naming.
Linda Beatrice Brown
© Linda Beatrice Brown