Three Ways to Enjoy the Woods After the Great Hinckley Fire

I

With care and four hands build homes

for fire. These towers need no speaking

to be finished, so even God can not

stop you. Grab the dead things, leaves,

pine needles, sticks, anything the trees

have shaken off this month. Russet gold,

and red—it’s almost fire already. Almost.

Later, in the tent, after the first snow,

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hear the Chickadee declaring; here,

I stay, every season.

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II

There’s no way to trespass in the woods,

but still, hide. All four of you know the only

way to make it through briar unscathed

is to be gentle. Night thieves, holy angels,

silent night. Find the barn you found at ten.

Past ivy and family graves, uproot floorboards,

pantries, and bricks, the gone need none of it.

Take it home, behind your dresser. At school

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look up to the day-moon say; A little longer,

we’ll need you tonight, again, to guide us.

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III

Don’t. Go home to the boxes. There’s no

escape from leaving. A house has good bones

until you strip the skin. A home is lifeless

without chairs to sit in. There’s only one way

we were taught to say goodbye to a place—

bury small things in the garden. A ring,

bones, yellow scarf, or knives. Anything

to prove we were here. On this earth,

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nothing taken can be returned;

everything built can be destroyed.

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