Burning Off Poem by Jared Carter

Was it you I saw, out burning off weeds along the ditch
north of the old house? You I glimpsed through the haze?
You standing there with your leaf rake, your watering can,
you who woke up this morning knowing there would be no wind,
that last night's frost had left the sky empty and still?

Was it you who bound up your hair to protect it from sparks,
you who went out after breakfast, who broke off a handful
of stalks, who knelt with a match from your apron pocket?
And was it you coming along behind the flames, herding them
toward the culvert, making sure they kept to the road's edge?

For a moment, I thought it was you - that you had come
to draw the last warmth out of the rushes and cat-tails,
that you were bringing the fire home, that it remembered
the way. But when I looked again, I could not be certain,
could not tell whether I was peering through mist or smoke.

Perhaps it was only a trick of mid-morning sunlight
at this time of year - the way it can flare from dim
to bright, even with no clouds in the sky. Set back
from the road, where leaves wither, and milkweed pods
dwindle to ashes, the flames might be too pale to show.

It might not have been you, after all, on the other side
of the haze. Perhaps it was only the shadow of a hawk,
or smoke from another fire, across the fields. That sound
must have come from a last few geese passing overhead,
or weeds in the ditch, rattling and knocking together.


First published in Plains Poetry Journal.