Dispassionate

Burned into ashes, pressed into dust, wildness decomposes beneath the floorboards:
eager to echo with a valiant last breath
if ever he would knock with more than passing interest.

What soaring colors once was this room painted?
the crumbling cobweb question drifts to the floor
nearly unnoticed. (It was attached to something once.)
But now--

For what
half-felt purpose does he so
implore the dispassionate gray of aged walls?
For there was something bright there,
briefly,
once.

In passing he considers the possibility of a figure, kneeling:
Asking.

For what?
For a flash of lightning to set this house ablaze--
A relief-sighing body
burned into ashes, pressed into dust.
And under the dust--



fertile ground.