Wildfire Eidyllion

An elegiac idyll,
As all idylls are, if not
Quite hopelessly nostalgic

For their own tranquillity,
The poem that can take the loss
Promised by living pictures

The burning of the woodlands
That were themselves the setting
Of earlier nature poems.

Every winter for decades,
Skeletons will write their own
Fine, black lines in white spaces.