Returning Home

I bend back to this work
after days of fire, my feet 
gray with ash; swear that

these tracks, these
proofs of memory, will be more
than grief’s dust, more than tracings

of what was, instead
will become maps, urgings,
soil in which to grow — what?

Sustenance? Tinder
for new fire? Not my place
to know; I bend back 

to work, always
to Work — mindful
of Fire, pushing off

my own need to Burn.

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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