Before the storm, there was fire.
It came quietly at first —
a warmth, a flicker,
something easy to ignore.
Until it wasn’t.
These poems live in what the fire left behind —
in ash, in memory,
in the things that refused to disappear.
After the Fire
Treasured flames flickered
above a barren earth.
The rain was gone for months,
unable to soothe
the summer’s rage.
Smoke rose
into the orange sky,
and ashes gleamed anew —
lighting a new fire
where the last had burned out.
Burnt Straw
Our field
scorched by fire —
tender wheat
taken by flame.
Embers glow,
carried in black smoke,
settling into soil,
the air sweet
with burnt straw —
ash clinging to my sleeve.
Where it started
I can’t tell.
Only yesterday
the sun was warm on my eyes.
I dragged my hand
through golden strands —
what summer left behind.
Frayed But Not Broken
I looked for your name
through shards of glass,
the cracks hidden
in forgotten drawers.
In notebooks I’d ripped
and thrown away.
Sealed love letters —
I thought they burned
when the fire came.
I found glimpses of you
and put them away.
Frayed but not broken,
tucked between attic walls.
Some things do not turn to ash.
They shift, settle.
and stay —
in quieter forms.
Thank you for reading.
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