A fine layer of ash covers my wagon.
Touching it, black specks coat my finger.
Studying what may be trivial dust,
I ponder this as I linger:
What if these ashes came from a tree,
Now lying down, so far away?
Once home to a nest of baby birds,
But only ashes here today.
Perhaps they have flown so long and far
From a home, evacuated.
Or maybe they’re from a family’s store
The opening, long-awaited.
Each of the specks carries a story.
Who knows what burned before
The remnants traveled so many miles
To land on my wagon’s floor?