The Last of It Sweet November, that fire beyond the trees Is a tree itself, an oak in glory, The last to shed, the last to close its eyes. Ferocious, its long and indignant blaze Against the day, refusing to concede The point, no matter how frigid or dazed Or bent by wind until its leaves are taken. Wise from the seasons of a century, It knows some sleeping things never waken.
Fire Pit All that evening the crackle Of the neighbor’s fire pit Came sharply through my window. Some were sown as wheat, it said, And some were sown as cockle. In due season you will know. I watched the sputtering bed Of flames do its work below. My heart feared the heart of it.
Daniel Patrick Sheehan is a journalist in Pennsylvania. His work has appeared in First Things, Dappled Things, Trinity House Review and other journals.
Grand Little Things 