You cover the barren, ravashed ground,

the scarred arm,

hacked at by the fiery blade until,

air parched,

the brush caught, burned, and bled out dry.

An insurmountable heap of ash,

but nursing Nature has just the remedy for that:

A poultice of rain,

a bit of forgiveness,

and the illusion of a sunny day.

Soon, the excuses grow roots, form explanations

and long-worn apologies as to why

things couldn't have been better.

Firmly set in soil, these oligotrophs are called

a just history. You (the plants) drape, and

repress, and blot over the ashen truth until the

lines all run together and blur,

and have about the genuity of a painted-on face.

I suppose it just goes to show that the ash

and ink may be irreparable, but at least you

can always get new grass.

There. (It never happened.)