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.
