Sunday, November 18, 2007

Burning the brush pile

I waited

After a summer of stories
spreading like wild fire
burning drought
scarring our lawns
parching our lives

I waited for this
long gray day with its
on-again off-again
cold soaking drizzle

this November evening
the neighbors must
think me daft to start fire
in the rain

the primordial spark
then small tasting flame
grows in a tinder hollow
first beating breathing
hungry heart of fire

hunkering down
sitting on heels
shovel handle
staff at hand

willing the fire to live
a human windward shield
my back soaked
the small light playing
in early evening
shadows

sputtering, guttering
twist licking turning
small flames embrace
dry branches dead leaves
sizzle quickly

burning the brush pile
has begun there is no
turning back as there is
no turning back to place
the limbs upon the trees

more drizzle damp fuel
placed upon the rising
pyre steam wood smoke
carried alee by not so
gentle evening breezes

as darkness encroaches
the breadth of now
involved fire lashes out
brighter for the night
a primal circle of light

radiant heat contrasts
the rain soaked side of me
that faces from the flames
chilled through to bone
an unkind balance met

now roaring in a wind
whipped frenzy fly ash
glows dancing
high into clouded
night blinking out

circle light in darkness
alone drawn across ages
of silent sentries standing
face front to warmth
back to nightmares

rising now beating back
light cold rain
this living ravenous
ethereal entity calls
out for greater sacrifice

I will wait
as the brush pile burns