White Ash opus 12
| 18 August 2020 1200 Hours | | Climate, Mortality |
White ash filters silently down around me.
Like snow I think.--When suddenly
I connect this falling ash
To the fires consuming California, everywhere.
My finger obstructs the fall of a flake.
What was this in its former form?
Someone's house or barn?
Someone's car tarp?
Someone's flower bed, destroyed?
Someone's woodpile, ready for winter use?
Someone's chicken flock, unable to escape?
Someone's Bar-B-Que plastic cover?
Someone's pet dog's hair?
Someone's beautiful old oak standing for centuries
next to a home?
OR--Someone's personal ashes, transformed
when defending her property?