About the things we burned.
The leaves we gathered
so many brittle memories
raked into poem piles
and oh how they caught
signal fires on hilltops
dispatches from the front lines
clean down to ash
that turns a grey mud
in the season’s first cold rain.
Some things are meant to be burned.
the necessary fires that purge
the magic of pencils and diamonds.
With the scent of strawberry and smoke in your hair
I could love you still more.
Previously published at Poetry Breakfast.