From the farmhouse, she crossed
the yard, head down,
bound for the burn barrel.
She carried odds and ends,
the week’s newspapers,
old food wrappers.
From afar, I watched her
strike the match.
I saw smoke rise.
She stood staring
far off toward something
only she could see.
I should have gone to her
but what does a child know
about the weight of a life?
I stayed my distance, frightened
of the fire, well clear of the smoke.
Grey Sparrow Journal 