
Wildfires
©2021 Susan Noyes Anderson
The wildfires burn fuel to ashes. I’m melted
and homeless. Adrift in the redwoods,
resilience is theirs, not my own.
Not one of us will pass through life without being touched by death and grieving. Initially, I had only a handful of poems about death and losing loved ones and did not feel a specific category on that topic was necessary for this website. Sadly, after losing my youngest son in 2018, that has changed. This new topic includes 40 poems about death and grieving, written as part of my own grieving process. I hope this category will make it easier for other bereaved parents to find and use them as part of their own healing. My poems about death are here for non-commercial purposes only. Please include full copyright information on every copy, emailing a request for permission before using. For internet use, a link back to this site is required. May peace and comfort be yours on this difficult path.
FINDING THE POEM YOU WANT: As you scroll through this section, simply read each snippet sample (usually the first four lines) to get a feel for the poem. When you find something you like, click “CONTINUE READING” to view the entire poem.
The wildfires burn fuel to ashes. I’m melted
and homeless. Adrift in the redwoods,
resilience is theirs, not my own.
The melancholy overlays each day,
a weeping willow branch shading bright blooms.
Reminders of you wind through all my rooms
in flowers, bright and dark along the way.
You looked at me through soft blue eyes,
expressions you did not disguise
of courage, anger, love and pain,
compassion, humor, wry disdain.
Grief was a ghost with an ache in her chest
and a lot of emotions that scared me to death.
She was love with no outlet and pain with too many…
had little control and less grace (scarcely any).
Her feelings exploded on walls and on ceilings
in chaos, a state not conducive to healing;
and even when she settled down for a while,
she could never be trusted. Her sad little smile
was a lid (a loose lid) on a cauldron of loss,
and she spent every moment just counting the cost.
I always was an early riser,
but I still enjoyed my bed.
Now I leap out like a rabbit,
scared a fox might have my head.
I wasn’t blind to them;
I saw your flaws.
But greatness was the thing that held my eye.
You said I was your giving tree,
my foliage tendered to your need:
the branches and the greenery,
the trunk sliced deep enough to bleed.
The little book you gave to me
about a lovely giving tree
has rooted on the polished wood
that holds the tomes my heart deems good.