We Breathe You
There was a curious dusting of a talcum-like substance on
my car one morning last week.
I drove away. It flew off, disappearing into the air.
Then it came to me.
The terrible, terrible fires reducing your homes, your towns,
even some of you into fine ash and carried on the wind
thirty, forty, fifty, miles off.
We read newspapers, see the pictures and videos, wring our
hands and pray.
My wife packed blankets, pillows, food and water.
"Paper says you can leave them at Community Market.
They'll get them to the victims."
I couldn't get into the market's driveway for the long lines of
those dropping off their boxes filled with concern and love.
Heard that I could take the items to a union hall - "We hoped
to get enough to fill a semi truckload," the man at the hall
said, "but we got that on the first day, we're sending
So many good people.