Bright woods once thrived, alive with light.
Branches bloomed freely, leaves glowed fresh green.
Fire arrived,
the green decayed in a cloud of thick smoke.
Only charred wood and ashes remained.
People walked past the wasted land again.
They thought joy and vitality had permanently vanished,
and no songs would fill the wasted land.
Seeds slumbered under the burnt earth,
time drifted,
rain fell.
Slowly, shoots broke through the ruins.
It was not the old tree but something new.
Original poem © 2026 Andrew Hale, licensed under CC BY-NC 4.0.
Commercial use without written permission is prohibited.