My Home is Burning

Wake up, little girl, your home is on fire.

I existed in a well, dark and endless, surrounded by cement and bricks, small flowers peeked out at me from within imperfect cracks, and I peered back.

Sweet cosmos, of pale pinks and blue- I followed you, up and out and through, but it was wrong- the view.

Overhead, puffs of orange hues blanketed the skies, while smoke stuffed air filled my lungs, and stung my eyes.

I had been asleep in darkness, dreamt in waves of waste, never changing, never trying, never healing, never learning,

I opened my eyes too late and now-

My home is burning.

~Feathertales

I have been struggling to write this poem for weeks. I don’t really have words for what's happening on the west coast — where my family is, where I grew up and lived, up until two years ago. I can’t put into words what California is to me, other than home. I used to walk down uneven pavements, under a grey, cloud-covered sky, the coastal breeze whipping my hair into an unruly mess and a smile onto my face. I used to listen to waves lapping on the shore, the sea lions barking in the distance whilst my hands drew words on the sand.

Now all I see is red and orange and smoky skies on the television. I see my mother’s backyard covered in ash in pictures. I see forests and homes burnt to nothing. It’s still spreading. Every year it gets worse.

Climate change is real and it’s time for us all to wake up.