My folding chair is set a bit to
close to the fire
I can feel the short curly hairs
on my bare legs singe as the
flame crackles in front of me
It is a good fire, fueled by the
past and a healthy dose of
wood and kindling
I have arranged the logs in
a square pattern alternating
vertical and horizontal each
step up, stacked three high
reminding me of Lincoln Logs
without the little grooves to
help them fit together
In the middle I have stacks of
twigs and leaves burning hot
and occasionally I toss in a
moment from my years gone by
The flame is bright and hot
and high, glowing orange and
yellow as the occasional
ash of paper flutters up in the
breeze
I am burning the poems of my
youth – my fountains of rambling
born of adolescence
The paper burns hot in a flash
as I watch the little curls of ink
disappear in the consuming flame
The desperate pleas to my Sara
and my musings on her smile
trail a dark grey swirl of smoke
dissipating in the night sky
My passionate rants on the
ways of the world and my cause
du jour – or du month or year,
however you might say that
in French – vanish in the
consuming flame
I had reams of these ramblings
each of them heart felt and pure
and each of them scattered
without force or reason or focus
Smiling, I toss them in,
one at a time
- a pyre of my past
burning hot and quick
Smoke trails up into the night
leaving behind the ashes of youth
that the man may be born
