On successive autumn nights
I burned left-over lumber
from a large summer renovation—
plywood, doors, 2 x 4s—nails and all—
a blaze off in a corner of the backyard—
flames leaping ten, twelve feet into the air,
cracking the darkness,
illuminating my face
and the hands that fed the fire.
Weaving in and out
of the sphere of light-licked lawn
on dewy blades
that would be frosted by dawn,
my ten year-old daughter
danced and sang like a pagan,
like she knew
the light in the darkness
and the warmth of the orange glow
were jubilant discoveries
of things she needed to know.
Grey Sparrow Journal 