Burning Brush

Blue smoke and a bright flame

entangle among dry brittle

brush piled for a ready burning,

but this net cannot hold fire

and is rent and becomes dust.

He watches the quick flames darkly,

knowing he had a man's right

to make earth bear something

beside scrub oak - but had he?

The tops of young trees that had grown

intimately in sunlight, hidden

shy quavers of song, that had borne

sleet with a curving declension

and snow delicately, now

crackle and hiss and become ash.

A singeing spark of regret

from the bright burning now falls

into the troubled mind, lord of so much

that is not of its own contriving.