Sawmill Burning

SAWMILL BURNING

Butterflies burn in the purple night.

Gossamer blisters twist,

Fall on our faces,

But it's only luminous ash

That clings to our wet skin.

In the dark a single spark brings it all down.

Full fuel tank roars a dragon's wrath.

Sawdust and sheet metal meld.

Flames incinerate uncut logs:

Futile death of trees.

My husband sees his life's work

Flit and fly across the sky

In unbearable embers.

Glowing orange . . .

Then grey . . .

Now white.

Will it melt on my tongue, like snowflakes?

Or taste salty, like tears?

His sawmill burned three days.

Richard brought me its fused beauty:

A lump of metal and wood,

Silver, porous as coral, eerie.

It sits on a shelf,

Reminds us of destruction.

And resurrection.

"Sawmill Burning."  Jimson Weed, vol. XXV, new series vol. 9, no. 2 (Fall 2006). 2006   

Appalachian Writers Association James Still Award for Poetry, Third Place.