Ashes fall lightly from an orange sky
pretty ashes in tints of dead gray
black and white ashes from deep forests
and time tendrils curling into darkness –
blown as gritty fleck and smudged scrape
through the screen, onto the windowsill,
my face, the thin needles of the front yard pine.
They are scorched ash bit remnants
flung by heated wind as memories of life
on evergreen slopes and their ravines-
until wildfire snatched them in flames
and sent them to us, memento mori,
as grit for sweeping from our shining surfaces.
Ashes.  Ashes from the orange sun and moon
brushing over our human lives, burning us,
as fire blooms and ash clouds billows.

Portland, Oregon – September 6, 2017

The Eagle Creek wildfire, as I write, is devouring forested lands of the Columbia river gorge east of Portland.  Ashes have been falling for days now.  It has rained, here in Portland, only .7″ over the summer.  This is only one of hundreds of fires blooming in the American west.  This one, however, hits home, literally.  That always makes a difference.