By Henry Fisher
It started the morning after a bonfire,
When the ashes reminded you of sand.
The gray remains not quite granular,
And yet something to be formed
Using molds and small tools,
You began to fashion your kingdom.
Ramparts, moats, bartizans,
Turrets and machicolations.
Far smaller than any original,
And smaller than the competition.
Ash is not the same as sand,
But you think it is more refined.
It has marched through the flames,
To make this piece of art.
The sand merely runs its course,
In its place of wind and sea.
Your first display was ungrateful,
But they will see its glory.
You try again and again,
To bring this sui generis to their eye.
Your thoughts soon turn to the trees,
What if they were human?
Would they sit and scream,
As you molded the ashes of its cousin?
Using tools of the Earth’s blood,
You create abomination.
The trees silently ask you,
Have they not served their purpose?
To live and die and burn.
To live and die and burn.
You shake your head,
What a silly concern.