Notre Dame

A finger of fire, pointing accusingly up the heavens,
Like a stuttering short sentence of defiance,
Topples earthward, its final statement concluded.

The Towers remain, stoically solitary,
Like distant cousins separated by family conflict,
All around charred, exhaling its final breath.

The bells remain, swinging but not speaking,
Like those of us who have no words,
For that which has now been taken from us.

Works of man, have but a short time to live,
Like blossom fired in the warmth of early sun,
They fall, but will return to bloom again.