Poetry Friday040

Image by Lou Angeli Digital via Flickr

Burn

When grief sweeps deep into gullies
and once green meadows melt,
Ponderosa sticks, flame sharpened, poke the sky.
I rush by, gasping, clutch my throat
full of words I will not purge, eyelids
on fire with memories.

When white tails leap past downhill fast and
heat and smoke snuff nests of rabbit dreams,
mole minions meet their maker.
Ferns falter, faint, and
bunch grass is consumed.
I shake my fist at firestorm
rolling overhead, like a freight train filled
with screaming banshees.

When they come, heavy with man power,
equipment, pure stink of sweat and fear and balls,
they build a line, push back. Backs aching
all night breaking ground, force spot fires down.
I lay in smoldering places, receive the
balm of cool water and gentleness
into my open wounds, dream of
snow enough to cover my dark nakedness.

When forgiveness, like fireweed, hot pink, impossible,
blooms in purged soil, I fall to my knees
in Spring rain, tear striped ashen cheeks
remember flourishing. Memory of burrows,
baby mice, nests in upper branches,
contrast of moss tendrils on stone,

I, ancient and always,
remember
redemption.

Lesley-Anne Evans
March 2011

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