My California is burning,
and throwing smoke into the air.
It is chasing people from homes
with thick waves of fire
and winds that refuse to relent,
eating away wooden frames
leaving a smoldering, empty foundation.
People in cars speed down highways
behind a wall of black and orange
with no bags packed,
searching for shelter.
My California douses highways and cars
thick forests and beaches
until everything erodes into disarray.
It shakes and thunders,
moves buildings and stadiums,
and everything else that tap dances
dangerously on a volatile fault line.
Yet...
the heat of the sun in December
and clean, white sand
is nothing like I've ever known.
My California steals pieces of me
cell by cell
breath by breath.
Leaves me hollow and craving.
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