After the fire
The fire is ash, the dark sky darker,
and the rain falls heavy as sorrow.
There was no tapping at the window,
the places set remained empty,
but I heard the owls and their calling
across the meadows and the swaying trees.
The door is closed now, the cloud veil drawn,
and the night will deepen before the dawn,
yet there is a spark, a memory of soft fingers
brushing my cheek with feather-touch,
and from the corner of my eye,
I think I catch the fading of a smile.
Perhaps you came after all.