hope, like wildflowers, blooms in this very place

Another poem I wrote in the days following the Palisades & Eaton Fires <3 

 I see… a city etched in gradients of gold, From sun-kissed beaches to hills untold, Where concrete rivers carve a sprawling grace, And dreams, like hummingbirds, find their own space. A tapestry woven of stories untold, Los Angeles, resilient, brave, and bold.

I see… the embers fading, a smoky haze, Where yesterday’s flames danced in a fiery maze, Homes turned to ash, a landscape scarred and bare, Yet from the rubble, a spirit takes to air. The scent of char lingers, a somber trace, But hope, like wildflowers, blooms in this very place.

I see… hands reaching out, calloused and strong, Neighbors helping neighbors, righting what went wrong, A mosaic of faces, diverse and bright, Sharing burdens, under the fading firelight. From every corner, a helping hand they lend, A community mending, until the very end.

I see… the Navajo Hotshots, with ancient knowing, Their footsteps echoing, where the flames were flowing, A legacy of wisdom, passed down through the years, Fighting fire with fire, calming all our fears. Their presence a blessing, a sacred, steady guide, Protecting the land, with unwavering stride.

I see… the Mexican firefighters, brave and true, Crossing borders of language, with a shared point of view, A brotherhood forged in the heart of the blaze, Their courage a beacon, in these challenging days. Solidarity shining, a powerful embrace, Humanity’s strength, in this devastated space.

I see… from afar, where island rhythms beat, A daughter of Jamaica’s sun-kissed shore, With gentle hands and softly pattering feet, Bringing oxtail and warmth, a comforting psalm, Sharing the flavors of home, a taste of the past, Nourishing bodies and spirits, built to last. A reminder of connection, in the face of despair, Love’s gentle power, mending with tender care.

I see… a city rising, from the ashes and dust, Reforged in the flames, with unwavering trust, In the power of unity, the strength of the soul, Los Angeles stands tall, making itself whole. A testament to resilience, a beacon so bright, Shining through darkness, a guiding, hopeful light.

L.A. Wildfires

The hills, usually a hazy green-gold, were rimmed in a furious orange. The flames were licking the sky, a sort of perverse, angry sunset. It wasn't the usual smog-rose of twilight, the gentle blush of a city’s exhale.. This was different. This was hungry.

I could smell it on the Santa Ana wind, a hot, dry whisper that tasted of ash and something else… something ancient and angry. Like the earth itself was exhaling a sigh of fire. Down below, the ocean glittered, oblivious, a dark, shimmering mirror reflecting the inferno back at itself. a vast, indifferent eye watching the world burn.

Even the bougainvillea, usually so vibrant, seemed to cower, their magenta blossoms dusted with soot. dark tears upon a painted face. 

I remember when I was little, I thought fireflies were tiny stars fallen to earth. Now, these embers floating on the wind, they were like fallen stars too, but dark ones, burning with a terrible, beautiful light.

The air was thick with it, you know? Not just smoke, but this… this energy. Like all the pent-up anxieties of Los Angeles, all the unwritten screenplays and broken hearts, had finally found their way home. The air crackled with unspoken tension, the kind that could destroy a world.

I imagined the coyotes, their eyes glowing like twin embers in the darkness, descending the city streets, nestling in among us. lost souls. The deer, their delicate hooves pounding the scorched earth, fleeing further into the ravaged canyons. 

This was a reminder, I guess, that even in a city of angels, there's always a touch of hell. A reminder that this land, born of fire and earthquake, was a place of wild magic, both beautiful and terrifying.

It was a story being written in flame across the hills, a story of loss and resilience, a story that Los Angeles knew all too well, a story etched into the very soil. And tonight, the story was being told in shades of orange and black, under a sky weeping ash. It was a reminder, really, that Los Angeles is always on the verge of something. On the verge of an earthquake, on the verge of a mudslide, on the verge of spontaneous combustion. 

And one-by-one, our dimmed lights blink back on, beacons flickering in a desolate place, doing what all Angelenos do best… starting all over again.