It takes a few minutes and some hope to light the burn pile

once I get the handheld torch and lighter working

and the kudzu branches free of the dirt, the dead

rosemary shrubs from this hard last winter and leaves

from the 100 trees in our yard, though they haven’t dried

because the rain keeps coming.

The pile smokes and I think of my father who hates

the smell of burning wood or hates the way his eyes burn.

Earthy and essential, the smoke lifts into the air and flames,

just a flicker of light and heat growing, burning first

the dried leaves as the fire builds, then the branches

and logs as I poke and push, create gaps for it to breathe.