Re Little Gidding

			
When the last tendrils of heat ache upward
And the purgatorial winds
Cooling and soothing and sweeping away
Relieve them from their lesser domain
Then all that remains
Is the dust of that place too heavy to rise.
 
Through the flame one falls
And unto the soot and dust one kneels
Their ivory bones, licked clean by the flames
Then one feels the upward draw of the ember’s plight
To give of itself in infinitesimal tithes.