A Burned Scar

Our tree was lightning-struck, a burned scar

where its branches grew. And I knew

this disappointing thing, death, loomed larger

than it should  — just black-ashed wood and leaf. How few

sadnesses remain. This one

somehow did. I couldn't shake the memory — 

the dark edges, teethed like jagged bones,

the deadened black wood, the fresh-lost green,

like Golgotha, somehow — the lifelessness of stone.

I look across the yard, cross it

looking for vague comforts, some mound

of life, some true movement: birds, a line of sun-

light so alive with hope it buzzes with sound;

nothing. I rest here, sunk

in silence that sweeps into new air—

the stillness moving me toward it like a prayer.

Winter 2022