In the forest
below the falls
like my heart
after the burning,
charred stumps of spruce,
scarred birch and aspen,
pine boughs scattered like
dismembered skeletons.

I thought life would never
come again - no seed could
survive such devastation,
but fireweed carried on the wind
eats into the black soot of earth,
takes root in charred rock and
in the spring on the wind I see
purple heads of fireweed dancing.

And you
my love
after the fire,
after the burning,
have taken root in
the ash of my soul
and sprout there
my fireweed.