Bushfire

The outback fires raged and chased the little critters onto barren land, home was now gone, as sadness interlaced with spinifex and bulldust, in the sand. But look, a purple flower, ah so unafraid! Unfolds and points its petals to the sky, oblong and green, caressing as a braid two fragile leaves embrace, while aiming high. A trace of darkness, scorched from hostile flames sticks to the fabric of the flower's skin. I stand in awe, forgotten are the precious names though there is closeness here, a spirit's kin. Last puffs of smoke drift up as if to search for space in which to start anew its evil tongues of death, a shadow scrambles and it leaves a wrinkled trace upon the earth and on its critters' hopeful breath. The purple flower, now maturing into pink, is standing taller and it sways in the new breeze it cannot wait for friendly clouds to share a drink and leaves to others all the begging and the pleas. Life for us all may hinge on simple, silly deeds, bestowed in random ways by friend and foe alike. Each purple flower must be tolerant of weeds and of Bavarians with big bellies on a hike. Yes, life will blossom as the script itself revealed, no fire ever can destroy the spirit's soul. All deadly ills of human beings shall be healed by roaring flames under benevolent control.