The Meaning of Fire

I pulled into my driveway
This morning and saw a small
Pile of wood not there when I left,
And for want of nothing,
I set it on fire in my backwoods.

I watched the pile burn amidst
The licks of golden Autumn
And I knew that inside and
Around the smell of rotting leaves,
I was watching life and death.

The wet wood from other unfinished
Fires cracked like old knees before
Me, and I remembered my sin.
If I lack the seasons I lack everything;
I lack the snow flurries in May.

It is the remembrance of ash that
Makes October the sweetest month.
The poplar wilts and the garlic mustard
Sleeps under the loam, and the ash
Rekindles itself in the Spring.

Eliot says that April is the
Cruelest month, and he is right,
For surrounded by life
We forget about death;
We lose our bearings, we lose hope.

Only in the cold does the young lamb
Cling to its new fleece, and the fungus
Rises with the cold snaps and devours
The crispy tombs of the soil,
And I remember my sin.

It has been said that dead leaves
Know what it is to be found.
Without Autumn there is no recollection
Of falling, for even sleep is a death
Too short to recall.

I wish to be found, and have my finding
Rise among the charred twigs like fire.
I wish to be blown under the shoots of
Sugar Maples and wake up once
The Winter King has taken his leave.

The ash of old tobacco, the ash of the
Small fire I lit, the ash of my dark heart —
That death is the life around me,
The small, cool flicker of my rebirth;
The sleeping of the trees is loud.

If sin be not bitter, grace be not sweet,
And the tart sponge of the deflating
Seasons cannot hold captive the flight
Of dying. In April I look only to glory
And forget the crispy tombs of my sin.

The frisky young lamb sheds its fleece
Under the shearer’s hand, and the
Heat of calm air turns me toward
October, toward the longer sleeping
That drowns out the sun and sky.

Remember the bread that is prepared for
Us, that we might awake and know
What it is to taste, to drink, to be filled
And to cherish no longer the pebbles and sap
That do not satisfy our vernal hunger.

It is only the sinister side of our brains
That sees falling leaves and conjures death.
The world does not end in October,
Nor does it begin in April; the geese rotate,
The soil redoubles, the lambs die and are born.

All fires burn to ash, and the dagger-drops
Of light pour in over the gray earth.
Renewal rests with the compost of
Worms and repentance, and the clouds
Cover the sun only for a time.

I should hope that more wood is set out
To be stacked and ignited, as I should hope
That the thick fleece of young lambs is
Spun into warmth — and it is all green,
And it is all gold, and it is all red.

Originally written 10.24.10

Porcelain Poodles

A ripped copy of The Deerslayer and
Some sundry hand-crank coffee grinders
Were the only witnesses to my white lie.

It’s true, I don’t collect Goebel figurines
(Despite the porcelain poodle on the counter)
But such a purchase demands explanation.

In truth I sought a gag gift for my brother,
In false I was my crippled grandmother’s
Gofer, tracking down her beloved Goebels.

I slid the beveled buttocks of the Standard
Into my pocket with a wry smile that said,
“Oh yes, the 1941 trademark is so exciting!”

True, my story was pure embellishment,
But I will never see the brown-nosed
Cashier and her Goebel obsession again.

Likewise was the elderly banker who closed
My account.  I did not have the heart to tell
Her I was abandoning her bank for another.

Instead, I was getting married in Annapolis —
“No, no, ma’am, the Naval Chapel was booked” —
And moving from Ohio the very next week!

Sure, it is a crime to lie to an old woman, but
She should have never been working there, and
A young man’s romance was a shot in her arm.

There are some sins that do not lead to death,
And I think these blind embellishments are
Merely amplified conversational hit-and-runs.

The only collateral damage is dealt to the dull
Silences undressing between strangers, the
Glances at the ground, and the hum of heaters.

Originally written 10.07.10

The Trees

“She liked yard sales” was the only
Indicator that she had been alive.
Typed below the address and time
Of her wake, the smack of rusted
Folding tables, alarm clocks, and
Cracked vinyls was the only proof

That she woke up daily, owned a
Purse, and apparently had someone
Who cared enough to make sure we
Knew that “she liked yard sales.”

Or the other man, dead in his garage
After a few beers in the folds of April’s
Chilly first week, whom I knew only as
The polite tangent in a red sweater
At Christmas, or the crooked pink
Windsor at Easter (his regular daughters
In Robin’s Egg and laced stockings).
I smiled at him among the continental
Muffins and “Blest Be The Tie That Binds,”
But in the end I did not care that he died.

Then there was the woman I saw huddled
In the corner of the coffee shop, her face
The afterglow of a lonely briquette left
Smoldering after so many years’ ignition.
Her son, the portly and silent fixture
Purchasing her sandwich and tea, askance
And reading with the superficial nod
Towards the needs of his corpselike
Mother… does he see in her dim light
The pink necktie, the lover of yard sales?

I should rather hope to be a lucky pagan
Admiring their bones from the safe
Distance of the generations, clucking
Among their memories as a diviner of
Detached runes and easy novelty.
It is the escape, the quitter’s cop-out:
Reading some obituaries, passing a basket
Of muffins, avoiding eye-contact in a café —
I may know much about death, and miss
Much about handbags, hymnals, and tea.

Originally written 09.28.10