Ash

Ash

The dust on the wall
is the ash of forests,
and once this meadow was sea,
spilling over with flower splashes.

Listen to the hot wind,
the tread that breaks heads,
dead clover, brown as nuts,
where purple flowed and yellow flowered.

No life beneath this fierce orb,
only laughter from pools blue-bright,
as if the world turns right,
and the fire is for another time.