Hope

A night like blanket of
     smokish air;
Sterile waste of
     lifeless soot;

The smell of
     scorched timber;
The sight of
     desolated landscape;

An expanse of
     dust and ash;
Charcoal ruins of
     what once was;

In the midst of
     this destruction,
A delicate flower of
     purple blooms.

       ... Hope.

-T. Gene Davis