A, Fire Poem by James McLain

I walk, amongst the tender shoot, it once was.
The ashes stiffle breath, grey lost in eye, now brown so dark
this sky.

The stream was in bathing, floating clutter, dreams
of yours to cry.
My Feat is roses, shrivel, burnt are vineless, pink as once was
pale blood.

Riderless, horse of dust, would if could to finish thus, tramples
under foot, burnt ropes that chafe the soul, in acidic soil, once more.

Is it, sits and crys, barren, to wade forever, through once potted
tender hands, to know no more.