Ruin

In the barren woods,
morning light gathers
in a clearing touched by fire,
thin as winter sun
through charred branches.

The air smells of ash and rot.
Moss climbs what’s left
of a fallen tree,
quietly covering
what can't be restored.

Sometimes I stop there,
run my hand through the moss
covering its blackened bark,
see my face reflected in the water
pooled inside that hollow trunk,
and wonder how life keeps growing
around all this ruin.