POETRY WRITING

And this is poking through ashes
In ruined country,
And this is how one does it,
And yes, the twice-burned child returns
To the fire,
And this is what it finds there:
These charred forms, twisted
Like driftwood, lovely,
The old pain
Gone with the gone flames, they still burn--
But flames in a mirror; they hurt
Your mind's eyes,
And the ashes float in the air; they settle
Like black snow
On plains and grasses,
And this is how you know
My life burned this way,
The cat's prints
A trifle blacker
On the clean and driven snow.