First, heaped pallets. Then fence
rails, a chair, armloads of scrap wood
and tonight they’ve finally lit it up,
every ragged bit blazing, a dozen kids
ringing its perimeter. We call them
kids though we know they’re not,
these neighbors likely older
than us the summer we met,
and though we’ve groused
like geezers at the growing eyesore,
we admit, from our porch, that now
it’s lovely: soft cracking and the tang
of smoke, flames thickening the dark
at the margins of our yard. The last
of the lightning bugs echo
the burning. Each body a beacon,
compelled to beauty even now.
Our garden’s gone quiet, save
for the asters, fringed faces
so hopeful I should have planted
a field. The sky is navy, slick
like vinyl. This hammock curves us
toward the other’s comfort.
Our neighbors, they’re just getting
started. They feed the flaring—
fallen tree limbs accepted
with urgency. All those branches
reblooming umber and ochre.