father’s fire; a poem

The greatest gift my father gave to me was fire.

When I was a little girl, my dad taught me how to build a blaze from nothing,

He showed me how to angle the kindling to catch,

How to scrunch old newspaper into florets of flame,

How to swing an axe at a trunk to break off the best logs.

I always wanted to stuff the furnace with fuel, watch it catch and drip like ink in water,

I liked the instant warmth, loved the intensity and brevity of the light like a moth.

But he told me that the best fires are the ones that last;

He taught me to coax and cajole the flames into warming the whole house, not just my hands,

Not to stuff it with paper for a moment of delight, but forgo quick joy for a night of deep burning coals.

My father taught me many things, but most of all, he taught me how to wait.