and I’m dead set on a fire:
the year’s first.
Barely cold, but I want
to ball paper, lay kindling,
strike a match, smell autumn.
The same as a boy:
the sleepovers, bike rides, fishing trips –
always the next thing, always
tomorrow.
I’ve got good at this – wielding an axe.
Wood splits:
a hollow ring.
Soon now, I’ll sit
and watch today go up in smoke.
