Path of Fire - a collection of poetry

 Path of Fire

(For my Father)

We skipped church and

went into the woods instead.

As the sun streamed through the trees

tossing patches of light

on the ground,

we gathered twigs and branches

which he stacked with care,

kindling wood first

big logs on top. 

He lit the fire,

holding the match

into the middle of the pile.

It has to burn from the inside, he said.

The first flames leapt into the air.

then died down

hissing and spitting
and turned into a steady glow.

We roasted shriveled
winter apples,
peeled the scorched
skin with a knife.
Busy eating, I let the deer
graze safely in the
echo of my young girl’s voice.

The photo with the guilded edges
shows him behind a mug
overflowing with beer.

He faded in steps,
fingers trembling
as he tried to light his cigar,
hiking boots shined and unused,
dreams about death,
coffin,
urn.

He left me his watch,
his rebellious mind, his
love of wine, of the
fire I now build on my own,

always trying to remember
to light it in the middle,
spread the embers evenly
and let it burn
slow, hot and steady.