My child

is five, dreams of fire,
marches the garden path,
hits sticks together.
He knows the power

of dead wood
and chants,
half nursery-rhyme,
half prophecy.

I see him,
as he meets the gate,
spins on his heels, retracts,
back down the path.

I know that someday,
maybe too soon,
he will march,
right through that gate,

striking his sticks
into full flame
and he will set this world