by Layla Welborn
There’s no comfort I’m offering
Just that there will be more becoming
It will burn
More—or less hot
You will compare this hill to that, when it’s done
Marvel at which green thing made it
Ponder what happened to the animals
And, because you don’t find their bones, you’ll cheer for
their imagined escape
You will finger every remaining piece
Surprised by what’s whole and what’s not—
like perfect tea cups and melted car parts
Ash, first fallen, looks like snow
You might rub your body with the molecules of your old
things
Your lungs surely will burn with the smoke of them
It will be years before you’ve recounted all the things gone
And these things will begin to fertilize the ground
Behind your ribs, your home is there—all the dimensions and
perfect light in tact
Outwardly, the center point leveled, home is in the wider
circles now
The wind will reach you quick and strong, undeterred by any
branch
You will notice the shape of the ground itself, un-obscured
by anything
The wider horizon will pull on your breath
Then the earth will sprout and thicken around the base of
the tree-trunks-turned-to-coal-spires—like a child turned her picture of the
forest upside down, the tips of the old trees rooted in the sky
The stories will start to change
You will turn and seed the burned dirt; it will push up
poppies
And you might cherish how the old tin roof—scavenged to
begin with, and now again—is showing its rust behind the woodstove of the new
cabin
Note: My friend Layla wrote this poem and sent it to me. I loved it and asked her if I could post it on my blog for anyone to find and read and treasure. Thanks, Layla.