Sweet Where Flames Are

The skeleton army marches
Past the gates of the park tourists
Swarm, unaware of skeletons
Other than their swaddled own.

The skeletons are beautiful,
Marching mostly upright, spiky
Soldiers, scattered toppled over
From all their years, not from the fire.

The fire they stood, stood where they died,
Where the desert meadows thrive now,
Dusty greens and gushing yellows
Around the dry roots in the fall.