norm

The green hills whisper their secrets of rain and sun.
The char from the summer fires isn’t gone or forgotten.
It rests beneath the lush grasses and vibrant bushes
And whispers its own secrets of flaming touches.
It pokes through here and there to ensure it is seen.
To be seen is to be remembered and that is everything.
For the summer winds will come again like always
And all it takes is a spark and the hills will be ablaze.
When the hills go up, some homes will surely follow,
They line the ridges and fill the canyons and hollows.
This cycle repeats every year, from green to brown to fire.
We sacrifice much to the pressures of the social norm pyre.

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