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What is there to do about wind
that blows ashes
from the white-hot smoldering
remains of gathered brush?

My own thoughts leap into the heaped ash,
my few words kindle new flames
until all that's left, smoke.

The box I carried in July was so small
for a father I placed in a grave
that now watches spread maples go red,
cornfields dry to brown.

This is what you think when you watch a fire burn.

See against the dark firs
how smoke plumes into a fragrant cloud?
And see there the ghost woman
who keeps me company,
her long hair blown back like flame?
She says,

Make of these bones a shelter.
over it hang the night.
Keep one small fire against wolves
and when dawn tenders the top peaks,
your sorrow will be gone.