Regret

I become a whirlwind of fire
burning, turning to ash
all that I touch.

Then smoke
drifting into the night air
escaping into the clouds
hitching a ride.

I leave behind the scent of cinder
in the air. On everything.
I cannot be brushed away with a broom
or buried over while replanting seeds.
I linger. And mingle with what you grow.