Reignited With That Fire Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I will silence you without any grief while the
Sun is in his high orchard and all of the heroes have
Gone to sleep:
And this is my world, while I stare at pictures of
Myself with my wife,
And my grandfather sleeps in Tennessee—
How he dreams of my grandmother who I
Remember burying underneath the strained perfections of
A cross atop the end of the hill her little house sits
Beneath—next to the ashes of her oldest daughter,
While my mother leapt about her—hot embers
Waiting to be reignited with that fire.