Bone Ash

by Mason Wageman

Lightning,  maybe     they say.

Of the black scars       that sing histories                   on the Aspen Tree.

Oh the ashes  bone, white, soft.          

Falling,                                                Falling,  

   Falling.

Lone tree          In the white desert     

Bitter black         bones                                      Crooked,          unbroken

Silent screams    echo across mother,                           Empty ears resound         valley wide.

Even the clouds   rain bone splinters                         soft, white, marrow         slipping down                                                quietly.

It’s beautiful     they say.

Mason Wageman studies English and Computer Science at the University of Denver. He grew up in Appleton and loves the summers there.