There Are Those Who Say This

I lit the bonfire,
a pile of dry weeds,
dead vines from the garden,
dead twigs from the willow tree,
boxes of yesterday’s trash,
heaped residues of autumn,
let them burn.
Encouraged by the wind,
fed by its own hunger,
the fire got out of hand.
It lunged toward
my neighbor’s house,
crept through dry grass
to threaten mine,
as if to say in tongues of wrath
that destruction will have
the last word.