by Cynthia Good
Then it sparked into flame, Christmas
in the fire pit, a burst three times
the size when it stood in the den
festooned in bows, the Fraser Fir—
a shooting spiral of tangerine light.
What should we burn next?
you ask. Let’s burn the stuffed frog
your son wasn’t here to unwrap,
burn my mother’s last wishes,
and the envelope filled with love notes
from the ex. Burn winter and all
of last year. Burn
the acorns in the yard, their little hearts.
Ashes float in our coffee, like snow
in your hair as smoke stings
our eyes until we turn our backs
to the smoldering, and medallions
of shimmering leaves
catch the sunrise like Monet’s
speckled early spring,
beginnings and endings,
surprising as they are inevitable.
I’ll hold onto the frog. You can’t
burn anything all the way,
it only turns to ash-
giving us grace
to let go of what’s gone.