Ruth Bavetta

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After the Wildfire

After the air is no longer electric
and the fixed points of the compass
return, after the field on the hill
has cooled to white and flames
no longer weave the trees,
the eucalyptus twists like tin
and the chaparral is milled
to western dust.

A breeze moves powder in pale spirals
swirling gently above the roof
of the only home remaining.
A child crosses the road
to the ashy skeleton of the oak,
bearing water in a white paper cup.

Ruth Bavetta writes at a messy desk overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Her poems have appeared in North American Review, Nimrod, Rattle, Slant, American Journal of Poetry, and many other journals and anthologies. She likes the light on November afternoons, the music of Stravinsky, the smell of the ocean. She hates pretense, fundamentalism and sauerkraut.