This is one of my other English poems that I had to write. Funny story about this one, actually. When my mom read it, she seriously thought it was about the apocolypse. Wow. It's actually a mataphor. See if you can guess. I had to make it really obvious, because my mom couldn't tell at first, and I didn't want to get points off for a strange topic.
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The Fire
Summer ends, one day in mid September,
the humid, hot air disappears, along with the earliest birds.
The day the fire starts.
The first tiny, flickering sparks will lead to the flames that engulf the whole world.
The sparks catch, and fire ignites the color in the trees.
Fire catching. Flames, trying to lap up anything their tongues can reach.
All of a sudden, everything burns,
Blazing in the cool, dry air,
until no green remains.
The world is heated with glowing warm colors of fire.
But the beauty is not allowed to last forever.
As soon as everything is engulfed in flames,
red, orange, and yellow.
It dies.
The intensity of the inferno falls,
dropping color to the cold floor of the Earth.
Straggling small flames prance to the dirt.
All that remain are the embers, lying on the ground.
Fire extinguished, a cold world white and gray.
But the fire will rage again after summer’s end.
