Silence, as the burned bush fallen to cinders;
I lie beneath it, counting branches turned to ash.
Where leaves once grew, now I know emptiness
like the gaping maw between leaves.
And I must write lines between lines
to seek what must be said--that the heart of the creator
is wallowing. No motion, no seed, no way to plant
a garden without flames to precede
the brush, the moss, the trees.
Do I ask some other muse to speak?
Like the dormant roots of a weed, I need
something to ignite, to fuel, to know
I am not done growing.
Change, the pain of rebirth
was once aflame, now dimmed. Mere crackling,
I have no more destruction to seek, but this fire-stripped forest
has turned lifeless for me.