The spiral log that sang straight
into my heart
is ashes now,
released into the fresh clean air
of the mountains,
released into poems,
released into memory.
The last time I visited
I lay inside thinking,
what a coffin this would make.
And now
I hold only ash
and one charred segment of spiral
that carries me up the creek
to find others of her vintage.
Together, we visit
within the temporary,
spiraling our way into infinity.
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