Burning the Trash

Out where my folks live is a big fire
pit for downed branches and a wire

bin for burning trash. Mom will stand
there with a stick for poking and

watch the trash bags disappear in fire
and smoke, ashes flying up and higher

in the wind over the fields. No one burns
trash on a day the fierce wind yearns

to wrap itself around buildings or trees.
It’s not safe and the match just sneezes

out, anyway, even with a lick of news-
paper to get things started. Best to choose

calmer days to set the trash aflame,
or the pile of branches that came

down in winter, ice laden, or in spring
winds, the season itself taking wing

like an eagle come back after years gone,
home to nest in what’s left after that long

absence. Yes, spring comes in storms
or soft breezes, suddenly free of the strong arms

of winter, those pinions, that prison guard,
so grim. I see her standing in the yard,

burning the trash, poking the flames through wire
charred black by the welcoming, calming fire.

— Babs