How To Burn a Field
(Good Advice Spurned)
Grandmother packed a picnic lunch.
Brother, sister, and I, with two uncles
traipsed into the woods,
in search of adventure.
We found it.
We ate our picnic lunch, sitting
on a fallen tree, spanning the creek.
We sampled “Rabbit Ice,” formed
on weeds, hugging the stems
in smooth, thin white curls.
We drank creek water in cupped hands,
so cold, we shivered.
“Let’s build a fire,” my brother said.
Uncle Larry cautioned, “You’d better not.
You’ll set the field on fire.”
We built the fire,
warmed our cold hands.
As the circle of fire began to spread,
we beat it with branches,
water carried from the creek in our hats.
Undaunted, the fire ate up the dry grass,
spreading like a pond ripple
from a rock thrown in.
Uncle Larry refused to join
our efforts to ‘beat out’ the fire.
He stood, callously laughing
at our futile efforts.
The entire field burned.
We worried all afternoon.
What would Granddad say,
when he saw the black field
from the kitchen window?
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment