Remains - Feb 20 2026

 

Remains

Feb 20 2026

The fire spared the graveyard.

But fires have no reverence.

They simply behave this way;

jumping and veering

and inexplicably sparing

a patch of unburned land,

then flaring up

from fires underground. 

  . . .  Until eventually

they consume themselves.

So our ancestors’ bones lie undisturbed,

their granite stones

unblemished by soot.

Such an irony

that while the dead have nothing to lose

we lost everything.

  . . . But mortality keeps us humble;

that born of ashes and dust

we return to them

when our brief lives are done.

The town has been razed,

the forest reduced

to bare ground and blackened stumps.

But next spring, fireweed will sprout,

and soon after 

a dense green mat

will cover the land we took for dead;

grasses, ferns, and forts

flourishing

free of shade.

Even blueberries

will come back bigger and better

on the scarred terrain,

fresh berries

like a bold proclamation 

of life defying death. 

And in the aftermath

some loving descendants will tend to the graves

despite their grief

or perhaps to allay it,

pulling weeds

cutting grass

and removing the dead bouquets

other mourners have left.

Some fresh graves have also been dug.

Covered in loose soil

they will be roped off

seeded and watered

and cleared of wind-blown brush,

until later this summer

be even greener and lusher

than the pre-existing plots.

While past the ornamental fence

you could have squatted down

on the barren ground

and seen some slender shoots poking-up

  — like wary scouts

eyeing the lay of the land

after the first good rain.

From seeds, released by heat

that flourish uncommonly well,

rooted in soil

cleansed by fire

and enriched by the burnt remains.