Scorched

Photo by Vadim Sadovski on Unsplash

The fire had passed before the dawn,

And left the hills with nothing on

But blackened stones and branches bare,

And smoke still hanging in the air.

I thought the field had lost its name,

That nothing green could follow flame;

Yet near a stump, beneath the gray,

One tender shoot had found its way.

No boast it made, no leaf unfurled

As though to prove itself the world;

It only rose through ash and rain,

And quietly began again.

The forest keeps what fire has taught:

That loss is not the end we thought.

For under earth, where roots endure,

The scorched may sleep ; and still be sure.

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