“Fire on the mountain,” they said, “who’s going?”
We left our square dance, our summer girls.
How large the night grew when we stood
on the clubhouse porch, a gusty wind
rustling the leaves into waves that beat
on the shore of the golf course.
We could have wept for the greatness
that sharp stars, the hunger of fire had thrust upon us.
As we hunched in the truck under whipping low branches
each of us thought of our ladies waiting and waiting
long after the noble ship had gone down.
We stumbled for hours high over the lake
but never found our fire until morning.
By then it was out. Descending
I met my father rising.
I was his only son. Why shouldn’t he
nod serenely once he knew
I was safe? But fury seized me.
How dare he invade my burning city,
my chance with sword in the heat of battle?
I strode away and only years later
turned my head to search for the fire where again
and again he rises, thrusting
his love toward me, the figure
a son is pushing away from,
a city in flames behind him.
But anyone knows how the hero should
lift such a man on his back.
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