Carbon Cycle*

About the things we burned.

The leaves we gathered
so many brittle memories
raked into poem piles
we lit
and oh how they caught
and burned
signal fires on hilltops
dispatches from the front lines
tactical maneuvers
casualty reports
little pyres
clean down to ash
that turns a grey mud
in the season’s first cold rain.

Some things are meant to be burned.
Some deserve
the necessary fires that purge
and release
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.



Published by

Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner

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