Ash That Remembers Flame

"The White Flame never dies. It transforms, it rises again."

The fire lowers itself into silence,

its breath a soft surrender.

Embers pulse like fading stars,

each one a memory

breaking into ash.

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The trees lean close,

their branches etched with smoke,

roots still warm from the heat that fed them.

They whisper to the soil,

all endings root themselves here.

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The air tastes of iron and resin,

of cedar split and burned,

of something ancient passing into shadow.

I touch the ashes;

they cling like blessings to my hands.

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What remains is not silence,

but a song beneath the smoke—

a hymn carried by wind,

a vow smoldering in the soil,

the shape of light remembered.

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So let the flame sink,

let it fold into the dark.

For endings are not empty:

they are the breath before the spark,

the seed of fire hidden in the ash.