My father exited our home
Stumbling, limping,
Draped in green terry cloth towards
An engulfing blaze.
They hauled buckets across their backs,
praying for help from the skies above,
Broken, splintering
Wood spit back at their cries.
We sat and watched the flames
Lick at the horizon, reach with wide arms
towards the treeline.
It’s going to hit the house,
My mother muttered wringing her hands
As we sat and watched the hungry inferno
Creep towards us.
Our history lay in ashes,
Blood and sweat and tears mixed
In the humid air
The scent of hot iron clung to us
And still does to this day.