Fire Pit by Robert E. Petras

Somewhere beyond my hill in the low valley 
A backup horn beeps. 
Some chunk of metal there shrieks, slashes. 
Up here, the black walnuts have outlived 
The leaves 
Appearing like shrunken heads 
Ornamenting bald limbs. 


It happened two decades ago 
Across the steepled hollow, 
The nuts ripe, the weather unreasonably 
Warm, Father and I outside, 
His calloused hand upon my shoulder. 


We could smell all 
the smoke. Deeply 
Inhaled it. It tasted of autumn leaves, 
Roasted nuts and pure unaccented meat— 
So pungent, so sweet, as raw 
As the naked soul. 
We stood there on the crest of that hallowed hill 
Until that glorious smoke abated 
At our feet, receded 
Like a tide returned to sea. 


Advanced in age I had learned 
A strangler had incinerated his labors there. 
Now, whenever I feel the summoning 
I catch myself mechanically 
Clicking my commemorative Bic. 


I have a spade at the ready— 
Such a wonderful, useful death implement-- 
And seasoning and hickory. 


Father had taught me well: 
One can never have too large 
A fire pit.






Robert E. Petras is a graduate of West Liberty University and a resident of Toronto, Ohio.  His poetry and fiction have appeared in more than 200 publications across the globe.