These are the telling years:
The smoke drifts away.
The orange-red flames subside.
Letting another orange through.
The sun shines -
Upon faces still stained by tears.
Soot, dirt, dust.
The sun gathers us in its warmth.
Heart, soul, body.
Leading us to the realm of “play” again.
Where we can forget about the storm, the fire, the dark.
Play on sea and beach.
On green, grassy hill with blanket and picnic basket.
In beds of tomatoes, growing towards their full, red, sweet self’s.
But we know it now.
It sits in the corner of our consciousness.
Pecking away like some nagging pain.
The soul will tremble.
The storm will return.
And more will burn.