Pyromaniac bait

Sisters come in sets of three,

branches intertwined like threads of fate.

Our triad of old trunks,

huddled together like hunched crones.

Our flesh of fire-fuel

and hair of glistening 

leaves. Below stars bright as owl's eyes

blinking in velvet dark,

our hands trigger the season's change

In bursts of winter sunlight, watery and paper-bark-thin.

In thick summer air, brushing over burning

skin, in the bouquets we carry like brides

in spring, and in the trails of

falling

autumn

leaves.