Abinadi

I thought I saw fire
in young Alma’s eyes.

I knew his father—
original settler with Zeniff—
saw him smile with pride
as his rangy son outpaced other boys.
Even then, they played at war,
though reined in by watchful parents
when tempers flared.

In those days I spoke carefully,
persuaded in meekness,
mindful that heated warnings
could bake hearts hard as clay
over glowing coals.

Now, I erupt blistering ash, smoke-
signaling the conflagration to come.

I do not regret my life,
though it ends like grass
in a roaring furnace.

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