Wet Ashes.

Last night his children and their children and their children sat around the fire ring at his campsite
And for those few brief moments it was as though his own small flame blew high and strong
As it did in the old days
When his wife was living
And his sons sat at his feet.
Long afternoons of paper reading and slipper bringing and teaching them the ways of the world
Things you thought you knew
And now the smoke billows around you and life is new again
For this small time
But all things end
As this thing has
And the morning comes
And there is cleaning up
And work to do
And the flame is just wet ashes.