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| Robin Heidrich |
What Grows After the Fire
After the fire
the land does not hurry.
Char loosens its hold.
Ash becomes a language
the rain remembers.
In the blackened field
small verbs appear:
lift, split, insist;
green forcing its grammar
through ruin.
The old oak stands half-ghost:
one side burned to bone,
the other still working sap.
It has learned how to carry
silence and song
in the same body.
I walk there emptied
of answers.
Grief hums like heat
under the skin.
Some losses do not leave
when the smoke does.
Still, a bird returns
to the scorched fence,
sings into a morning
that asks for nothing.
This is how the holy feeds itself:
not by undoing the burn
but by letting life speak again
so quietly
you must kneel
to hear it.
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| David Anson Lee |
David Anson Lee is a poet, philosopher, and physician living in Texas. Born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, he explores themes of healing, grief, resilience, and the sacred dimensions of ordinary life. His work has appeared in Ink Sweat & Tears, Braided Way, Silver Birch Press, and numerous other journals.
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