Fire and Ice. A Poem.

Field fire by the pond,
and I set a glass of water down.
“Grab your shoes and a bucket,
there is a fire in the field.”
“Right Dad.”
“Look out your window.”
“Holy crap.”
There was no fire pole to slide down,
but those who could help slid on shoes
and within minutes the creeping low lying flames
were surrounded and doused.

“Let’s make a memory.
Go get your snow gear on and
grab a shovel.”
“But Dad, shoveling the driveway
in a blizzard won’t be a good memory.”
“Did I say a good memory? I just said memory.
Whether it is good or bad will be decided afterward.
Fifteen minutes, that’s all I ask.”
The work crew spent an hour throwing
snow up into the wind like salt over a shoulder.
I heard laughing.

Why wait for fire or ice?
It is best to drink room temperature water.