The Man Made of Ash

It's been forever since I wrote a poem for its own sake, so getting this out of my head at last was a relief. This reads more like a song than a poem to me, but I don't have a melody. One could sing this to the tune of "Babes in the Woods."

The widow came home on the funeral night
She lit up a fire and cried out her woes
And the flames must have heard, for just before dawn
A man made of ash from the embers arose

He looked 'round the room for the widow with eyes
That glowed with the heat of a fire gone dead
He saw her, called out, but no sound could emerge
For the man made of ash had no tongue in his head

He sat by her side as she cried in her sleep
His hand on her cheek as the morning did break
As the sun touched her face she started to stir
And the man made of ash saw the widow awake

She looked up in fear at the dark, looming shape
Who held out his ands as if pleading to stay
But she struck out, her hand driving into his heart
And the man made of ash slowly crumbled away

Then the widow cried out for the man not to leave
But by then he had vanished without any trace
She begged for forgiveness; too late had she seen
That the man made of ash wore her dead husband's face

So each night thereafter the widow would set
A fire in the hearth and leave it to burn
She cried o'er the flames till she sank into sleep
But the man made of ash didn't ever return