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.