Embers flickered of a
dying, crumbling
home.
my fingers stained gray
of sin, regret, and ruin
of hope.
it crushed what
the flame broke
what it took
and what it left.
ashes upon ashes
of what used to be
reminders of lit matches
and scorched petals.
winds threaten
to take even the remnants
of hell’s grip
and what is left from the wick
that burned to threads.
yet a Dove rises from the ashes
beautiful and singed
a familiar glow
of peace and mourning
but not a raging fire of rebirth.
and in its beak
a final hope
an olive sapling
untouched by despair
untainted by embers.
it chirped and
burrowed the roots of
its gift
beneath the rubble.
among the grayscale
a gentle caress of color on my cheek
and a bitter, painful
sweet kiss.
the Dove’s ashen wings
blew dust into the air
taking with it
the peace it carried
yet the rich green
drowned away the
drab sight
of a barren lump
of ash.
in embers
olives bloomed
of a heart of wood
tarnished by fire
thriving with life. F
