Fog After Fire; The Wind

Fog After Fire

Fog in topmost eucalyptus branches
linger longer, long after it’s lifted
off pinyon and manzanita. Visitant
at the door, no morning sun reproaches,

urges farewell. The entire high atmosphere
bears moisture, cold blanket on a fevered
body—foliage stripped bare, not barren.
Pod, seed and nut, berry and shriveled

root, each spore, grain and budding ear
by the scorched trail, blackened, sooty edged,
green sprouts, every weed’s welcomed. All praise
to the fecund, the newborn that suckle
purblind, germy and damp in the blasted
topsoil, the corpse of their winter mother.