The wildfire grows
to be a true and beautiful candle.
My coal sits, stacked on my lap.
The dancing fourth night tosses some (into the fire)
These sparkles are the glow of (my) life.
The cyclone storms through my elbow pit.
Wiggling my arm till my feet fall slave to it.
The run; I enjoy, lingers till forever.
The cyclone grows into a gentle breeze.
Lifting light foliage to rest as
My beautiful wildfire
My beautiful cyclone