NATURE Poem: Van Sickle, by S. Marie Watkins

Charred trees remain
from a fire twenty years ago – a dying
memorial. Bird song floats
over their graves. Some people plant trees

to mark as a tombstone, yet we do not achnowledge
these stumps as ghosts. Smoke lingers
over us from Yosemite’s fire,
and I wonder: how many graves will stand there

(and how many will be cherished
as such)? How many have fallen
miles away, never
to be thought of again?

Tonight, I light
a candle for the downed trees
and remember the soft heartbeat of a blazing
wildfire.

Author: poetryfest

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