We have slept through most of the Anthropocene, waking to sirens.

Now, look at the smoky season, seething with wild eye.

Autumn tells the orange moon to come back sober.

Goldfinch glares from his balsam swing, his wing singed.

Sky rages between silences.

Like children, we walk on eggshells.

When I was little, we made lanterns carried on a stick.

I trusted flame to lodge within its paper cage.

I think of fire differently these days.

My son, my moon, will one day be his own protector.

I have learned to live without another’s apology.

I will learn to mother with the earth ablaze.