I could call this "Hemlock Dream", but that just doesn't sound right ...
Ash Dream
Sometimes, in a fireplace, a limb will be consumed,
So slowly, so gently, that it retains its form,
Just as it was in life; the shape of the veins,
The mark of the bark. It shares those moments warm,
And filled with sunshine, having knitted structure,
Out of the very air. Such magic! -- that it weaves its dreams,
In daylight, making sugar chains too long for eating,
For any but termites, or beavers by their streams.
Those streams of tears that fell upon the hills,
After traveling on the sighs of tropic wistfulness,
To dash out all their hopes in Northern climes,
For trees to sip, and gossip with a stately cheerfulness.
And so this ashen ghost of form, observed by dreamers,
Resembles what we think we may become one day,
When all our cheerful sunniness, our hopes and dreams,
Have spun and scattered forth like Autumn leaves at play.
Perhaps one day I will be sitting in a park,
With wistful smiles recalled upon my face,
Having become an ashen image of my self,
That scatters to the winds without a trace.
NicknamedBob . . . . . . . . November 29, 2008