Maria Justa Polotan
I burned them today, your letters to me,
I placed them in a pile in the garden
And set them a-flame - with one tiny match.
They burned quickly, paper white to cinder.
The smoke climbed, a sinuous path of grey,
As teased by a gentle breeze, it twisted,
Graceful yet mocking, full of acrid charm,
Like a cup of unwanted memories.
And when the fire died, I began to cry,
Perhaps there were ashes blown by the wind.