It is in our nature to leave things behind.

The ash, the trash, the past.

The dust, the skin, the last

of all we were and all we’ll

ever be.

We remain in

rings of trees.

Powdered patience

applied loosely, transparently.

Whispers of perfume –

wet clothes in a cold room.

We remain in

rings of trees.

Bonfire smoke

embedded in the clothes, hair,

and lungs.

Diseased trees

The leaves, the hair, the fallout.

The dust, the skin, the last

doubt as we take leave of

all we’ve known and all we’ve

meant to be.

It seems

all that remains

are the roots and

rings of trees.