Resurrection
Sept 6 2024
He said fire burns uphill.
That balsam fir are torches
and should be culled.
That the litter on the forest floor
is perfect fuel,
sun-dried kindling
hungry for its spark.
The forest
arose from fire
and in fire it will die
give birth
resurrect itself.
But now
like an elderly man
who has buried a wife
outlived his friends
and has no children left,
the forest
is on borrowed time.
And like that frail old man
who rages at death
and will not go gentle into the night,
it will burn with ferocity,
turning trees to torches
and scorching the soil
down to its roots.
The land I own
and the home I possess
are but temporary guests;
only here
in this small clearing
hemmed in by woods
at the pleasure of the trees,
and not so much welcomed
as tolerated.
They stand regally, high overhead,
indifferent to my presence
and appearing to me
as if they’ve been here forever
and always will.
But when the forest burns
along with the world
it will take us with it.
And I can only hope
that there is enough time left
for me to grow old
before it consumes itself.
Knowing I will leave no successor,
nothing
to be remembered by.
While the forest will leave behind
replenished soil
and fertile seeds
with which to resurrect itself,
already beginning to green
beneath the cooling ash.
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