Instead of an essay for an opening board or such, a poem dedicated to fire, by a daughter of fire.

Baba’s Child

Hedwig de Leon

By your gait I can tell; I know

when you are off for leisure, the pace

of unhurried cadence breaking

into a dance. It never fails to rupture

my trance: the leaps, stomps and pirouettes

of bare feet on yielding grass.

At times it is the certainty, the sure

footed march to war: I feel each inhale

each exhale each breath; never

labored always calm all ways

Quiet. The perfect backdrop

to your scream in the sky; the perfect

Silence soon shattered as heaven

roars with thunder and lightning zigs

and zags across the skies.

In a hammock on your back I lie

Cradled, nibbling fruits and nuts, wondering

Why? Why must you carry me in a sack

on your back even when you fight? Or hold

me to your chest while you snooze?

A shrug.

Great. Should I pester you for an answer, pelt

You with nuts, maybe?             But then you

Opened an eye before I could:          “Because,

You said, “you are a brat.”

“My brat.“

August 2010