Warm Spring evening at my burn pile,
hissing restless of the fire,
pierce of an occasional hawk overhead.
Otherwise quiet.
Out burning Winter’s trimmings in the pasture:
wind-fall sticks, old hay and rosebush clippings,
broken fence boards and leftover pages.
Some cardboard boxes.
A pleasant fire on a warm Spring night,
relaxed like a deep woods campfire,
just thirty feet past the fence from my back yard.
Safe and serene, but a fire still primeval,
like Neanderthal after a good hunt,
bellies full, protected and sleepy.
I drift in a reverie, communing with the ghosts.
But that damned tractor across the pond keeps
on working, roaring, noisy diesel clatter,
snapping of saplings and trees
destroying this otherwise quiet,
destroying the otherwise pristine,
disturbing my tranquil evening alone
with the ancient spirits and popping peaceful
of the fire. Some voices are never heard,
others never cease to intrude.
Did I mention what was in the
cardboard boxes?
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Copyright 2008, by Gary B. Fitzgerald*
From HARDWOOD-77 Poems
