After the Fire

        for Roger

 

 

My tall friend has to stand,
his hands full of ashes.
Every thing he made is gone.
Ungiven. Taken.
His work is smoke.

 

He has to seek with aching
eyes through the sodden darkness
of ruin and remembrance
to maybe see that clear space
where nothing is forgotten,
nothing forsaken,
nothing familiar.
Where the work waits
patient as ever
for the hand of the maker
to make smoke stay
and ashes blossom.