So much a man to challenge fate, to set a fire just to watch it burn,
to feed the flame, an enemy, create, to fight a battle, a war for him alone.
No one will notice or think to say or show gratitude for the labor done
to provide fire to cook and comfort each day, and heat the night when day is done.
A reward for himself for all the trees felled, split, and piled to age,
providing for winter’s warmth, the yield, and now the field out back, a stage,
to gather the brush and pile it higher, even more than one should,
to light a fire, fight the fire, feel the burn, control the wild, to see the flame hot and glowing,
dancing yellow, orange, black, feeding, breathing, breeding, growing.
Hades cannot turn him back.
It is his reward to know neighbors across the way contemplate
his level of negligence that fills the sky with sparks. As night becomes day,
neighbors envy his arrogance, to see his children dancing about,
unwilling to come to supper.
His lady carries the water bucket out to bring her own fear comfort.
As if preparedness could put out this fire that sparks would not stray to take the barn,
the house in ire; if the field is not far enough away. He does not care to notice,
with shovel in hand. Only he can win this self-inflicted war.
The fire’s passion to destroy only he can understand as his children laugh
and remember his reward.
WoPoLi 
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