Campfire

First the insides, crumpled newspaper pages

Then a pyramid of fresh pine branches

Springy and scraggly, sappy to the touch 

Giving off a tart evergreen aroma 

Around the perimeter 

A wall of birch logs 

Elegant in their pristine white jackets

One scratch of a Diamond match

The pine boughs, ablaze in a second

Hissing, snapping, crackling, spitting

Spreading their hungry flames

The birch bark eagerly joins the inferno 

Tiny sparks flying into the sky

Dancing erratically, this way and that

Some reaching ten feet high

Sputtering out in the night air 

Plumes of yellow, red, orange flames

Agitated, restless, angry 

Jumping, dodging, darting, leaping

Changing form, one instant to the next

Each glimpse, its own fleeting masterpiece

A sudden wind, the smoke shifts

Eyes stinging, I move my chair to one side 

And toss in a handful of pine cones

Like fireworks, the petals burst into flame

Electrifying in their dazzling display 

Eventually the fire draws in its tentacles

Charred logs blink and glow

Sinking into their pool of reddish-gray coals 

Mesmerized, my breathing slows

Muscles relax 

Cares of the day recede

Replaced by a stream of memories  

Camping with my brothers at Little River

Ghost stories at YMCA camp 

In the Maine woods with my wife and son

So many campfires, so many decades

Magical moments spanning our lives