A House Burned Down

Cripple Creek, Colorado

No one lives there. The house is a tomb 
with boarded up windows.
Its tar-paper skin tattered, its shingled roof—
tough as a donkey’s hoof—
has lasted through a tired century.
Inside is the scent of decay and abandonment.

It grew on a hilltop: A new square added, 
with each child born—placed 
like boxes, end-to-end—
in the gold mining camp.

One dry and breezy day a fire started. 
The sharp smell of smoke spread. 
The crackling sound of burning wood 
filled the air as raging orange flames
devoured the house.

Under a burned-black skeleton, 
a claw-foot bathtub sits in ash 
Springs of the davenport twist 
like a frozen tornado. An ornate headboard 
is on the ground, used in one era, 
destroyed in the next.

I stop to think, will my life end 
like this place? Just bits and pieces
in a pile of smoldering cinders?

By Steven Wade Veatch

Embers

By Steven Wade Veatch

A fireplace warms the room,
pushes back the cold, 
and lets me melt away
from the present.

Now I sit with my grandfather in his cabin.
He stirs the fire with a black poker
and tosses an aspen log 
on embers that pop and hiss 
while wild sparks swirl
up the chimney. 
I listen to his stories
and learn about life.

As the embers grow dim,
I work to stir the fire, 
to recall those lost days,
blurred by the passing of time,
but my memories fade, 
like the waning fire and dying embers—
only traces remain.