Out of the Ashes



The rarest seeds, long-dormant— 

fire poppy, jewel flower— 

are swift to respond, craving 

the crucible, scorch of heat.


Singed redwood trunks sprout

lacy emerald gowns, and bevies 

of naked ladies thrust up 

in seldom-seen profusion. 


Within days, night-vision cameras 

capture coyote, then black bear 

emerging from burnt brush. 


But some of us are just 

too old to reclaim youth. 

Our bark too crusty, seeds 

desiccated too long. 


Renewal will require 

more than rain. 

Let us grieve.

Give us time.