Subsistence isn't in the
fire it's in the ashes, and

the leaves left in the dirt
blown off of trees are our
victories, the sun says goodbye
always, with an explosion of
color and when the light leaves
us it may take some time, to
say good morning, hello, to
the little ones, who will learn
of ways to navigate, and break,
we look through our photographs
and some of the most beautiful
lovelies are hidden, because they
clash with the scenery, when your
one of many, too much will be taken
from you, still say what you want,
don't be what is wanted, dead in
flames we rise, and the little one
never dies, the roots still hold her.