Forest Fire Poetry

Burn my journals when I’m dead,
This you said and said and said.
I tried to, Ma, I lit the match,
but the sparks sparked on a branch.
The fire died down but not before
it laid waste to the forest floor.
The finches died and then the wrens
and all the foxes in their dens.
And try as I might to atone,
God just smirked,
You’re on your own.