All Things Burn
All things burn; burning white
snow consumes sun, alight
in grey, this December day:
— Never is the burning done.
At the street end, smoulder plumes
of poplar (and smoke-heavy hair
weighs upon hungry fingers ) — smoke
of ash-white limbs.
Burn, burn, O fiery feet, to brand
memorial minutes, for a wind
awakes, that will disperse
dust from the burning about the universe.
~~
Goodrige MacDonald (1897-1967)
from Recent Poems, 1957
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]
Goodridge MacDonald biography
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