The creosote burns black and thick
while snow it sizzles atop the beam

Each member once held something grand
a shed for hay, but grand all the same

Wind-blown summer brought it down
beams and pillars, structural collapse

So it came, the end of shed
no more to keep the hay

The lumber burns in cherry red
as calm breeze blows the orange tongues higher

All I can think to do is watch
and remember the summers long past.


Candace said...


I didn't know you had a blog. Why *exactly* did you decide not to finish your degree?

Jack said...

when you're in an MA program, writing poetry is a waste of your valuable time.
When you're working part-time for your uncle, writing poetry is something you do for kicks over your lunchbreak, while watching scrap lumber burn and after you've finished building an army of snowmen. ^_^