in the Georgia mountains.
My friend writes of the great trees and their vanishing,
but I have seen a young chestnut,
tender and green,
rising from its ashes.
I, too, write of loss and grief,
the hollow they carve in the chest,
but that hollow may shelter some new thing,
a life I could not have imagined or wished,
a life I would never have chosen.
I have seen the chestnut rising,
luminous,
from its own bones,
from the ashes of its first life.
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