When Fire met Earth

She came burning. 
Not a flicker or spark, 
but an unapologetic blaze. 
The kind that turns shadows honest, 
makes cowards retreat, 
leaves no room for pretending. 

She arrived in flame and fury, 
all righteous heat 
and sharp-tongued loyalty. 
The kind of fire 
that would fight for you 
before you even knew 
you needed defending. 

She did not burn quietly. 
She roared, 
at injustice, at silence, 
at anyone who tried 
to dim her glow. 

And still, 
I did not flinch. 

I met her 
with dirt under my hands, 
and softness 
that did not surrender. 
I was not built to fight,
but to stay. 
To root. 
To listen through the heat. 

She scorched. 
I held. 
And in that space between 
burning and becoming, 
something new was born. 

We do not try 
to tame each other. 
She burns bold. 
I stay grounded. 
And still, 
we reach 
not to change, 
but to understand. 

She taught me rage 
not the reckless kind, 
but the sacred kind. 
The kind that says: 
“You don’t have to make it okay.” 

I don’t claim to be her lesson. 
But I let her burn 
and do not move. 
And in the space 
where fire meets patience, 
something shifts. 

When grief split me open, 
she became wildfire on my behalf. 
Spitting sparks at anyone 
who softened the damage 
with pretty words. 
She questioned my gentleness 
in the wreckage, 
called it a door left too wide. 
Mistook it for surrender. 
Once, she shamed the way 
I knelt in the rubble. 
But in time, 
she saw the strength in quiet. 
She still thinks I’m too kind 
but no longer holds it against me. 
Now, she only nudges 
when the anger stirs, 
and lets me ache 
at my own volume. 

She was fire. 
I was earth. 
And we never needed 
to make each other smaller 
to belong to the same world. 
I am endlessly grateful 
that our wildness chose each other.