Ashes.
Blown in a purposeful wind,
They streak my face with gray brushstrokes.
Remnant traces of fiery teardrops.
Mourning a life burned and past.
Flames.
Indiscriminately consuming; many things burn:
Lives, hopes, dreams, control,
Rome and our own empires of erected vainglory.
Paper plates from picnics of childhood memories.
Loss.
The things we laid down, or those taken away.
Freedom, love, humanity, faith, grace and sanity,
Warm touches from loved ones
Who’ve moved on in purposeful winds.
Grief.
A mulch of loss and tears,
Mixed into life’s soil.
Hope grows again, blossoming as a flower,
Petals streaked by ash in the wind.
j.w. McKinleyville 3/8/25