From the Ashes

There will be no phoenix ascending from these ashes,
that salted earth, these bitter barrens.
Bad beginnings and worse ends remain here:
the earth still stained with quenched fire,
founding stones haphazardly haunt the plot.
The fieldhands say no weeds will grow there,
the truckers look askance and chew their coffee a bit,
a lot of stories, yes, tall tales and short ones, too,
and none of them quite completely fit.

The fawns move in and soon they’ve got their antlers,
the stain’s corners crumble with the seasons,
they said that nothing would ever grow there,
and again, and again, and again,
they’re speaking lies.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s