better days

bed of ash,
murky lake.

is still air so hard to take in?
need Eastern winds blow? so directionless.
bring up the ashes and distribute it among the trees.
the roots will heal in time,
as the bark just darkens, let it be a shelter,
let the roots dig deep again to find water.

a primeval forest,
fires come and go,
centuries withstanding,
expanding and growing,
burnt bark sheds off,
to grow ring after ring.

sunlight through the mosaic,
such a welcoming sight,
filtered out with distance,
till no shadows can be observed.

life is like a shirt,
starts of so new, untainted ,colour intact.
then comes the occasional spills,
with every wash cycle, it cleans.
the tendency of that shirt getting that type of spill again lessens,
if spillage continues, it wont be worn outside as often anymore,
eventually the shirt gets worn out,
colour fades, threads come undone, an unsewed patch by age,
reduced to wiping stains, and then discarded.

'make me a happy ending,
the recipe is by trial and error,
to suit an individual's dainty taste,
so you better get started'