The Morning After

The lightning danced all through the night To wrought a festival of fire That put to torch in blackened blight, And scorched the forest like a pyre Now, petroglyphs of nature’s arts In splotchy ash ‘cross craggy scarp, Are scarred background to blackened ghosts Now frozen in escapement’s warp. The energy of blackened woods And flora from the forest floor Has left behind the fertile goods Of nascence sown, as evermore.