the hillside

the river colored inside the lines,
tracing the bend of her knee,
whispering sweet nothings to the arch of her foot
on the way to work.

but she walked on by when the hill caught fire,
her head ducked
and a pebble for a tongue.

and her love's hair went up in smoke,
burned by the careless boy with his careless matches.

and every morning she wakes up with the same image of herself.
lighting another match.