New Poem

Particulates

10/9/17

Ashes to ashes, they

fall from the sky-

coat the car hood, the inside of

the nostrils. Dry & oily at once.

Contained in each ember, each powdery grey flake or

black shard-

a story, a life.

The motorboat & the bassinette,

the hot pulp of pumpkins simmering in the garden,

the pop of their exploding seeds.

The fire consumes it all-

not just the wall marked

with the child’s height every Passover, but the ingredients in the pantry,

& the pans used to

make the meals.

How many framed photos of lovers at sunset? How many trophies and blue ribbons? The wooden rocking chairs and heirloom desks:

kindling.

And not only the two fig trees gone,

 but the hammock strung between them.

The books loosen as they heat up, opening like an accordion.

The fire gobbles enough Christmas tree ornaments to festoon

a forest, when the forest was still standing.

Lost are guitars and pianos-

the French Horns emitting a drawn out moan

as they melt.

And the oil paint on

the art work bubbles then ignites.

With each breath, the intake of stories, histories.

We breathe in all that was lost, all that lived there:

frog/coyote/deer/possum/rat/mouse/fox/mountain lion/skunk/horse/sheep/cow/goat/snake/lizard/raccoon

all that

could not outrun the flames.

And the singed birds, unable to navigate their way

through walls of smoke,

succumb,

falling from the skies

like dropped handkerchiefs.

Ashes to ashes/dust to dust.

But there, on the hill, the orange light

that I took for more fire

was not flame, but butterflies.

Monarchs-

in the thousands.

& not

descending, but rising

in a great, living plume-

as if fueled

by their  own beauty,

exultant in their own survival.