in the lingering warmth of a sweaty august day
I crumple newsprint under twigs and leaves and
begin to burn flames starting tentative then growing
as I add old pallets and paneling and dead branches
from a pile in the woods orange fingers grab the
wood and reduce it to black glowing embers and
then to ash which either falls to the bottom of the
fire pit or drifts upward with the smoke in the wind
until it cools and then settles on the grass or the roof
of the house or the sidewalk where no one will take
notice the molecules of the burnt wood freed from
each other and on an endless journey
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