The Chaos

The leaves burned without asking permission.

My neighbor stood there with a rake,

feeding the pile like it was a mouth

he'd been starving all autumn.

The flames didn't care about the order.

They jumped. Skipped. Came back.

One moment consuming the bottom,

the next flaring up the side,

orange and thoughtless,

eating what they wanted,

leaving what they didn't.

Ash rose and caught light

like it had won something,

floating up and out and disappearing—

the only part of the fire

that escaped alive.

I watched from my porch,

thinking about all the ways

we try to control what burns,

rake it into piles,

light it deliberately,

pretend we know what will happen next.

The fire just moved.

Consumed what was there.

Left the rest to chance.

By morning, just charred earth

and the memory of orange.

My neighbor didn't rake it.

Just left the aftermath,

proof that nothing burns

the way we plan.