The running eyes
Are still and staring
At smoke and rock and charcoal
Beams and piles,
The wired lights entranced them yesterday,
Expressionistic splashes on plastered walls,
Needles reaching out in layers of primaries glaring,
So frightening if not so pretty
Safely in season.
Twenty dollar Christmas tree,
A bargain at the time,
Somewhere in the rubble,
The monument of wasted regret,
The cause exciting with a carol of joy
Now buried below beneath the charred remains
Of a house once so white.
"We didn't know..."
They mutter over ashes.