Ashes

When the fire burns down and the

Ashes pile up white, it is

Then that the remains show through

Twisted nails, stunted wood

And some charcoal blackened soot.

Is the Rest that matter, the

End of the day, the last passing

Moments before. It is in these

Scant murmurs that a lifetime

Is lived, and a legacy writ large.

For the writing is written in

Broad white strokes that

Feathered, pay their due

To the fire, its ash and the

Fuel so fierce consumed.

Then, lifted high, in a rainburst skirl

Ashes swing their dance,

Renewed and alive and

Reborn round the char and the

Nails and the bitter stones too.