Prolonged moment before the all-day rain
quit, evening light pressed into the gray
reflects the mist within like a lantern glowing
separate from the sinking sun, blinding colors
rage around me, superfluous extremes burning
wildly with possibilities that beg me to yield,
to gratefully acquiesce and unfence my mind.
Rooted in a woodstove ash dump, heavy
with seed pods after twenty years—Redbud
in flames, tongues of fire hanging brightly
to taste the damp air fresh with a thousand
new beginnings we’ve yet to speak of.
“Rooted in a woodstove ash dump”, wonderful image.
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Thanks… nothing like the truth.
I agree. I had a lovely ash pile. There’s just something about it. Thank you for sharing that.
You’re very welcome, thanks for the comment.