The Blues

There is a far-out place

Within the forgotten wastes

Where, in their turn,

The embers burned

But died in time misplaced

A wind of powdered white

Kicks up in the black of night

Above, darkness looms

The flames won’t bloom

Or reach their former heights

The coals are cold and the wind is shrill

A blanket does not dispel the chill

The world is a deathly gray

And the fire has gone away

And all is blue and still

But the twigs are dry and my hands are young

Will not stop til the work is done

A spark will catch

Like a stricken match

And a new day will have begun