Barbara Summerhawk

Small Flakes

White ash blows across the redwood deck

a fire somewhere, far? Not so far?

No hot coals or embers, just the dead white

memory of a tree, was it a fir or pine?

Skittering past my bare feet

Standing here on planks of sawn plans

for retirement, rocking on the backs

of these redwood planks

the ashes still blowing about scattering

our wild forest hopes to the evening winds.

Perhaps the sky will soon clear and here

we’ll see deep into the night

the Milky Way, the starry soul

of our universal understanding

past bare feet standing on an age-old deck

sailing on.