Blazing

I sit before the February fire and watch the flames die down to amber glow. My grandson comes just in the nick of time to bring the fire to life with chunks of oak from that last tree that, as a child, I climbed. I drift into the past and think of times I shared my childhood stories with my sons. I still can see them sitting at my feet and smiling at descriptions of the times my friends and I played outside all day long. Best memories were of five grant oak trees that symbolized, to me, our family's strength. Their shading limbs and stately, genteel grace were part and parcel of the life I knew. I passed my sentiments on to my sons. Although my sons grew up the way I had, they shared no “great oak’ stories with their sons. They felt that tales of special trees would be too sentimental for their modern taste-- for, after all, what is a tree but wood? I sit here chilled before the blazing fire. I grieve for limbs sliced up by power saws and carried in by younger, stronger men who speak of how one tree will last till spring. My clueless grandson smiles, and I just sigh. March 10, 2023 B--Forms and Words Poetry Contest Sponsor: Sotto Poet