As I dart in close to drop on a log
the hairs on my knee singe. They
shrink and curl and shrivel to my skin
so it looks like I shaved my legs in
blotches and clumps. Flames dance
and crackle and leap, and as a
gentle wind blows, bully their way
to my side of the pit forcing a retreat
from the branches I cut that will soon be fuel.
A decade of deadfall disappears
as workers work and children learn and
people like me look for something to do
alone on a quiet afternoon.
The Other Stuff 
Nice change of pace in writing style. Thoughtful.
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Thanks, I had about five hours to think of it as I reduced a giant pile of branches to ash.
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Amazing how busy one can be ‘between job’s. Like the poem, been there!
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Yes, but one day the backlog of projects will run out and there will be nothing left but the soaps.
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Strong verbs and adjectives. Line breaks that help move the story along. Good job.
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Thanks for the feedback, Brian. Writing “poetry” is really a different animal. Much less writing, much more thinking.
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