The Pines of Long Island

Every time I pass the Pine Barrens
I see the new growth stained in burred green,
But the charred death still stands above them,
Stroking the sky, leaving ashy clouds where they touch.

The woods were engulfed in flames
The time I was away, in New England.
When you drove down the highway,
You saw where the flames had stopped,
The pavement becoming a line of demarcation
Between life on one side, and death on the other.

Between life on one side, and rebirth on the other.
Rapidly returning, in beach-glass colors, gentle furs, soft-focus,
But the death still stands taller,
In sharp silhouette against the sky.
From the road, the death remains.