In this quiet, sleeping town where I grew up
powerlines rest lazily down the streets,
seemingly dormant.
Unaware of their power,

The trees rustle; languishing.
They rest in perfect symmetry
on the roadside, in the backyards
of mismatched houses;

Adorned with rustic fences.
The houses were kindling for the embers within.
They lived with quiet hearts,
alight and for the taking.

They waited for the day that they
could grow into a flame —
The clouds smothered the sleeping town
where I grew up.

They lay thick over the landscape.
Perfect hues of grey;
their melancholy seemed harmless,
but daylight of day was dimmed by those embers,

Fizzling away in their kindling houses.
Yes, those restless trees framed empty streets,
those powerlines expanded along the edges;
unknowingly charged as wardens.

This is the town where I grew up.
Soundless, sleepy and resigned.