kindled, a fire no more to burn

Public Domain

and i can not be, 

here, not tonight, 

a dying vine, 

these memories 

twisted backward, embers of a life 

retreating back to the earth 

with thoughts, evolved 

to die 

an ego, regressed, wailing 

a baby to suckle 

tainted milk from a withered teat 

a window closing 

wooden tracks, worn 

the loom, dismantled, the tapestry 

unraveling, these dreams 

the lustre, forgotten 

and this door ajar 

a breeze, and i remember 

your skin, when it was 

a river, the blood of an angel 

and of love 

and now to sit with these legs 

useless, trembling 

hands reaching out 

for nothing

Greg Alston is a gardener, cook, father and some other things, too.

Boulder Weekly accepts poetry and flash fiction submissions at 450 words/35 lines or fewer and accompanied by one-sentence bio of the author. Send to

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