In October my father would build

fires in the wood furnace upholstered by

large stones, and he would bend

down in his brown hiking pants to

shove in the split logs, and my sister and

I would watch the sparks curl up into the long

chimney, the heat like a dream

in the orange living room,

And the way I see it, he has spent every moment

building fires, and will continue in every

moment to build fires—stooped over at his waist,

acting out a strange old art, not thinking

too much.