A single flower emerges
From a forest of burnt wood
Like a phoenix rising from the ashes.
The background is charcoal gray
Stretching as far as the eye can see.
A forest of pointed black toothpicks.
Though, out of all the dead,
Little is alive,
Even weeks after the fire, only a few lichens and moss live,
But one flower, a fire poppy, begins to bloom,
Bursting upward and outward,
Reaching for the sky.
The autumn sun bounces off the ground ,
Shining off the fire poppy, a spotlight on a stage.
I sit there on a burnt front porch
Of someone's house whom I never knew.
For hours I sit there, never moving,
Watching the flower in the ever-waning sunlight,
A beacon of hope for tomorrow.
From a forest of burnt wood
Like a phoenix rising from the ashes.
The background is charcoal gray
Stretching as far as the eye can see.
A forest of pointed black toothpicks.
Though, out of all the dead,
Little is alive,
Even weeks after the fire, only a few lichens and moss live,
But one flower, a fire poppy, begins to bloom,
Bursting upward and outward,
Reaching for the sky.
The autumn sun bounces off the ground ,
Shining off the fire poppy, a spotlight on a stage.
I sit there on a burnt front porch
Of someone's house whom I never knew.
For hours I sit there, never moving,
Watching the flower in the ever-waning sunlight,
A beacon of hope for tomorrow.
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