Off Limits

He burned the grass
to kill weed seeds (so he said)
along the roadside. Thick mats
of grass from winter’s bed
exploded softly in flames
that reach out to skim earth
cleaner than a flock of goats
would do it. Leaning on a
rake handle he watched his beast
lick up its prey. Grass grows
greener after fire, a proverb says
(country proverb, not Solomon’s).
But fence posts began to smoke,
an arm of flame reached for the grove,
cat’s paws of fire bounded outside
the fencerow, he struck at the
sudden leaps, stamped, beat wisps
of blaze with his jacket.
His pant legs smoked, wind blew
toward the house, he smothered
a runner of flame with a wet sack.
At last the fire died with a smokey sigh.
He counted four burned fence posts,
a scorched tree, a blistered leg,
a charred patch on the lawn.
He started the fire to kill weeds,
not to run loose on its own account.