My November Poem

I’ve been thinking a lot

about the sheer power of destruction, lately.

The Giant Sequoia

is remarkably fire resistant, though born from flame.

You see,

when wildfires come, the heat opens their seed cones,

and once released, they fall, and are sown,

on the newly, fire-cleared,

only now ready,


Veteran’s Day reminded me

that World War I unleashed

horror, and pain, and blood,

and death, and loss, and hate,

and grief, and hunger, and soul-aches, spanning generations.

Then came a surprise.

By all accounts, a beautiful one.


Acres and acres and hillsides and swaths of

poignant, fragile, petals, whose seeds had lain deep underground,

dormant for untold seasons,


angry boots and menacing tanks and heart-broken shells

sliced scars deep enough into the earth, the sun – at last – touched them.

The seeds, only now able.


I know this is not always the case.

I know the Phoenix doesn’t always rise from the ashes.

I know.

But I also know that there is something strikingly true

about holy writ that tells of a Refiner’s fire

and of a trio locked in flames, whose only burning

were the knots that bound them.

And as I watch November wildfires


And too high seas rise, choked by melting ice caps and cafeteria spoons,

and loaded rifles aimed at desperate humans hundreds of miles away,

coming at the speed of stroller~

And all caps media posts, and breaking news that is only

breaking, and swastikas on synagogue doors, and school yard gates,

and downtown rallies.

I have to believe,

at least,

I have to hope.

I hope this is the final round of

Destruction needed to unearth a most vital human ingredient.

Shockingly skipped in nearly every grocery aisle and ad campaign and banner-wide notice.

A puzzle piece sorely missed.

Or misplaced.

Lost too often, of that I’m sure.

Being as human as I am.

I hope this is the moment it is


Set free upon us all.

Abundant and drenching and bountiful beyond teeming.

Something deeply true

and unendingly honest.

Aimed perfectly – at this just right time – into the center of our homes

and hearts

and posts

and schools

and neighborhoods

and politics

and friendships

and actions

and mirrors

and dinners

and walks

and housework

and families

and daydreams

and words

and prayers

and kisses

and selves.

I hope this is the time

of Thanksgiving.



About the author

Jamie Gann

Jamie Gann

Jamie Gann grew up in Montrose and recently returned to teach writing at Centennial. Her first Monitor writings came via the South American travel blog her family kept during their sabbatical year. She has also written for The Crested Butte News, Radical Family Sabbatical, Gringos Abroad, and Outside In Travel Magazine. She has always had a love of words, which is only surpassed by her love of family. She is primarily a mom to two boys, for whom there are no words beautiful enough to describe.