Scattered Ash

The poppies were in bloom.

A field of red
a bunch of bags,
of brown.

His soul was awfully cold,
burned to the touch.

Snowflakes falling like
or icicles
to the ground—
all just destined
to melt
and wash away
down the gutters,
and the storm drains
and the sewers
polluted rivers.

I’d bet the bodhisattvas
didn’t want what he needed.
I’m sure their enlightenment
isn’t the same as mine,
but all drops
make it to the sea—
whether dew or tears,
hail or rain.

They must. I have to believe that.
What else could make sense
of it all?

is only half the reason
why the ocean’s blue.

Ty Tortorelli lives in Pittsburgh, PA. He possesses a bachelor’s degree in marketing and an almost-senile soul.

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