Not leaves

but ash


What bits land, 

finding their way through windows, into lungs,

are the remains

of your house,

your physical memories ablaze.

I hesitate to breathe,


what is true.

With each opening of the door,

grief swirls

in grey, white, black.

It, too, will one day feed this soil,

grow new forest

and even stronger community.

But now,

staying inside,

I watch what has replaced rain.