An Early Lesson

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AN EARLY LESSON


The dark was big and cold, 

so my father laid the ground to build 

a fire pit, spread gravel down 


to carve a space in the yard about 

the size of a living room, a life.

In older cousins’ coats we’d sit 


in plastic chairs, clink pebbles 

off the grate while he split logs

he picked up from the curb 


of a neighbor’s house. We were

wealthy in woodsmoke,

sweet tooth-squeak of an uncooked


marshmallow, talk of church 

beneath the temple of the oak

tree. He’d get up periodically, knees popping  


to preach to us—not saying anything—

how it's nothing less than 

breath to keep a flame going.


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