The worthless things burned up.
Ash fell like snow
at a funeral.
Jukeboxes hummed the wrong songs,
flat, meaningless anthems
to a life long gone.
I saw my old self tumble out of a bar,
shirt torn, fedora *****
jacket soaked with beer
and *****
I think a dove looked at me once
and shook its head.
Through the flames, I kept score.
Bottles I didn’t drink,
pills I didn’t swallow,
words I didn’t throw.
Fairway greens, swinging clubs
without breaking windows.
Throwing a spinner bait
under a willow tree.
Kissing the river
without cussing
at the ducks.
One stubborn step
out of chaos
was enough
to survive.
Some things turned to gold.
Some turned to steel.
Some flattened and smashed
like tin cans
under a hobo’s foot.
The nonsense, the vanity,
the garbage promised heaven,
delivered confusion
and hangovers.
And yet, in the corners
of the disaster,
I found what stayed:
real beauty,
values that crouched hidden
like a stray dog
in the garage,
the things fire
couldn’t touch.
I’m surrounded by the things that stayed.
Coffee that bites back,
cats nodding in the sun,
squirrels and robins
dancing in the spring light,
echoes of friends long gone.
Small things survive the fire:
integrity, reverence,
a quiet hum reminding me
some parts of life
are worth holding on to.
And in the stillness I bow.
Cup lifted to the orange
and pink sunrise
that feels like forgiveness
and cattails
brushing my cheek.
Whisper thanks to the creator
beaming soft
through my window.
Small hands of time
and wisdom
guiding me
past the fire.
These things survived the fire.
And so did I.
A little singed,
a couple of second-degree burns,
but wiser
through the flames.