the enso

"Scorched" by marlowe

the poem

They say a scorched moth is later
quite shy but you continue still,
brave because you have no choice
but to rise from the coals,
not like a phoenix
but more like a spine
standing amid the blitz
as though these bombs
are the least of your worries. Your trunk
is charred, its past unrecognizable, brittle,
old rings forgotten by new growth.
Your green tips reveal hope, forever
reaching for the future, the sky, you will
not pause for survivor’s guilt
or speculation. Here comes
another storm.