Lick

They speak of the lick of flame.
The leaning forward of great maw,
Cheeks concaved to caress. Stroke. 

It is no gentle tonguing, but the 
crack of the whip. Lashed raw.
Left to smart, sizzle, bubble.

Carving its way through flesh and bone
on a warpath. A trail of midnight carbon,
plumed smoke, ash in its wake. 

Suffocate it. Wring its neck. 
Force sand down its throat. All to
silence the roar. Sever the tongue. 

But it has left a promethean path.
Verdant shoots spring from soot,
spurred on by the first rains of Spring. 

Growing inexorably; out of spite.
Nature's retort to its pillaging - 
calm panacea. Hope grows.