Day after day
smoke shrouds the mountains,
turns the sun to blood.
Up there, flames crown in treetops,
roar down dry ravines to climb
new ridges, scorching undergrowth.
In their wake, still smoking dirt
holds the charred remains
of evergreens, twisted ghosts
rooted in ash.
As I grieve for spruce and fir
crackling in canyons of fire,
I think of funeral pyres
by the Ganges, of mourners
immersed in its ancient waters
while cremation smoke eddies
above them, and the ashes,
oily ashes, flutter down.
by Penny Harter
Reprinted with author's permission from Lizard Light: Poems from the Earth (Sherman Asher Publishers, 1998)

Penny Harter lived in Santa Fe for 11 years. Fires often bloomed on the surrounding mountains. When she drove back to NJ, smoky haze lasted into Kansas. Her most recent book is The Night Marsh.
Visit the Ms. Harter on-line at http://www.2hweb.net
See the publisher's page for her new book at: http://www.wordtechweb.com/harter.html
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