Voices
rise and bubble amid
the
devastation, singing
a
ribald song on the streets
of
Dresden, still burning.
Voices
rise to the woods,
seeking
refuge from the flames,
bubbling
like popped blisters.
After
the funerals, after
the
death sentences, after
the
trials and arrests come
the
rejoicings, necessary
if
not sufficient acts to atone,
if
only partially, small twigs,
barely
green, barely twigs.
He
walked in the forest
of
his heart, and found
he
was lost, the path
vanishing
like smoke
snaking
to a dark sky, or
disguised
by fallen leaves
blackened
in silence.
Photograph: Autumn Fire by Mark Coldren
via Public
Domain Pictures. Used with permission.
at first I thought you and those trees in the backyard--you know, the ones you've been taling to--got into a heated debate.
ReplyDeletePowerful imagery and message, my friend. My, how you can write!!!
ReplyDeleteBlessings, Glynn!