Prescribed Burn

[image description: tiny green plant growing through ashes and cinders]

Moored too long
in patrimonial shroud
to one-size-all,
monoculture wasteland.

Groping, gasping,
I caught a spark–
“Love is kind”–
and fanned it into flame.

Flame, turned roaring fire,
burned it all to ashes.

What is God?
Or who?
Can I still want God to be?
If God is love and love is kind,
perhaps.
If God is man’s image,
guns and flags,
domination,
subjugation,
exploitation,
then

No.

I cannot want that.

Now I wait,
lying fallow,
losing track of seasons.
Scorched foundation,
Nothing

nothing was mine to give.

Sifting ash through fingers,
asking

can sooty remnants grow something true?

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