by Sharon Black

Ash swirls as we
rake up last night’s fire.
A half-burned photo
lies in damp grass:
your dead ex-husband
smiles out from the cul-de-sac
where you raised two sons,
one of whom I married.
I flick a pile of oak leaves
into the ash, pause to see
my children running up the field,
clapping against the cold.
A charred log sparks up, its
underside still glowing.
Our donkeys watch
from their ring of hay.