for all of those who have lost
The house that burned
to the ground
in the local neighborhood
was welcome
to do so.
It didn't move to ash,
it didn't dance
across the lawn on
fire.
It just really,
frankly,
burned up.
My windows across the way -
lit from
flashing red and blue neon,
sirens and
the intercom,
"get out!!!"
I watched the smoke
from my home,
with Bruce Springsteen
on in the background.
The heavy smoke drifting
over the
trees like a cloud on
any other day.
Each feather of
dense smoke,
catching it's way up, up
to the heavens.
There were pictures lost
of course,
and an old
knitted jacket from her mother,
and a lapis bolo, i'm sure.
I cannot say I'm happy,
to see a house burn up in flame.
It's rather jolting and unwelcome,
and in short
frightening.
After the work was finished,
and the firemen asleep
in their respective homes.
After nature reclaimed it's space
and let
the people
live.
The chimney half
red and black now.
The roof sifting
sideways,
night stars
cascading as to
overexpose the sturdy beams.
There is nothing happy
about a house fire,
the neighbors with their
rosary,
could tell you so.
And in truth,
it's not the missing
photograph
or
white silk shoe
from
her wedding
that complicates matters.
It is the
spectacle of
awe,
the awesome orange
flame.
The way it engulfed
such fleeting memories
of summer salt water,
and of baby's
first christmas.
It is
the inability to bring
the ecstatic wildfire
to a close,
till' finally it is
snuffed and
the empty note,
being all that's left,
damages the house worst
of all.
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