Miller, Elizabeth

English

Wilfrid Laurier University

The GooseVolume 17 | No. 1 Article 259-25-2018Uncontrolled BurnElizabeth MillerPart of the Poetry CommonsFollow this and additional works at / Suivez-nous ainsi que d’autres travaux et œuvres:https://scholars.wlu.ca/thegooseThis article is brought to you for free and open access by Scholars Commons @ Laurier. It has been accepted for inclusion in The Goose by anauthorized editor of Scholars Commons @ Laurier. For more information, please contact scholarscommons@wlu.ca.Cet article vous est accessible gratuitement et en libre accès grâce à Scholars Commons @ Laurier. Le texte a été approuvé pour faire partie intégrantede la revue The Goose par un rédacteur autorisé de Scholars Commons @ Laurier. Pour de plus amples informations, contactezscholarscommons@wlu.ca.Recommended Citation / Citation recommandéeMiller, Elizabeth. "Uncontrolled Burn." The Goose, vol. 17 , no. 1 , article 25, 2018,https://scholars.wlu.ca/thegoose/vol17/iss1/25.Uncontrolled Burn     I.  September   The headline reads: Fires Rage. You Must Evacuate. What Do You Take? The question lingers over honeyed  oatmeal as the paper goes unread.  Suddenly the fire is something more.  This is not just my family’s house;  our communal home is ablaze  while we feed the flames and  promise to reform our ways.   A child’s feet patter on the floor. Though the morning teems  with early light, the hour  is far too late for deliberation. No newspaper can prepare us for this.                                   II.  October   Dusk, scent of decaying leaves, ember-tinted sky. Moisture, chill air,  decline of a year’s growth. But to be undone is to open the possibility of being re-done.   Geese call out their passage,  and when, for a moment, I close my eyes, it is with the sensation  that this is everything, that all I have been— or will be, or am—is wrapped  in the damp odor of woods in October.   My daughter follows the geese  with her two-year-old eyes, and then, back in the garden, greets her father and sinks her fingers into the earth.   1Miller: Uncontrolled BurnPublished by / Publié par Scholars Commons @ Laurier, 2018As she does, we take in a view of pines, our house, our neighborhood. The fires out west have calmed, snow arriving long before it will here, but the geese give us pause. He asks what, of all this, I would save.   Ten, twenty years ago, I would have had  a ready answer. I no longer know what to say.   Within my gaze lie the dried husks of purple flowers from the butterfly bush and the soft-tipped milkweed he planted before our daughter turned one.   I have no use for the photos we took of the slow-moving caterpillars, the chrysalis, no need for the message he sent to tell me, after one particularly harsh storm—whose winds claimed three large limbs of the redbud— that the caterpillars survived.   Our home has been empty, this week, of the summer’s wildflowers, their remains nourishing the soil, absent the hummingbirds  that hovered, drinking, preparing  for their long flight home.   I watch her digging in the dirt and smell October once again.   This. I would save this.   Why didn’t I think of it sooner?                                   III.  November   It is late afternoon, and the only fire  I see burns safely in the metal confines  of the wood stove. I toss in the article,  still unread, asking what I'd take  if I had to evacuate. Each headline  and heartache is its own kindling, 2The Goose, Vol. 17, No. 1 [2018], Art. 25https://scholars.wlu.ca/thegoose/vol17/iss1/25impossibility hovering in the margins. Surely this is someone else’s story, not mine,   except the fire is in my mind, smoldering in the perfect silence  of knowing too much, and also  not enough. Having been betrayed,  we risk betraying our children.  Once, a small red fox approached  and peered straight into this room, then left as quickly as it had arrived. We are poised and ready  for all the wrong things.  If anything is to rise from these ashes, I won’t be surprised to find it verb  and not noun, or maybe a simple, universal cry: madre, nne, mare,                            ema, majka,                           mother.                                                   ELIZABETH MILLER is an educator who lives in Maryland, midway between the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Chesapeake Bay. She enjoys hiking with her husband and daughter. 3Miller: Uncontrolled BurnPublished by / Publié par Scholars Commons @ Laurier, 2018

Uncontrolled Burn

Scholars Commons

The Goose
Volume 17 | No. 1 Article 25
9-25-2018
Uncontrolled Burn
Elizabeth Miller
Part of the Poetry Commons
Follow this and additional works at / Suivez-nous ainsi que d’autres travaux et œuvres:
https://scholars.wlu.ca/thegoose
This article is brought to you for free and open access by Scholars Commons @ Laurier. It has been accepted for inclusion in The Goose by an
authorized editor of Scholars Commons @ Laurier. For more information, please contact scholarscommons@wlu.ca.
Cet article vous est accessible gratuitement et en libre accès grâce à Scholars Commons @ Laurier. Le texte a été approuvé pour faire partie intégrante
de la revue The Goose par un rédacteur autorisé de Scholars Commons @ Laurier. Pour de plus amples informations, contactez
scholarscommons@wlu.ca.
Recommended Citation / Citation recommandée
Miller, Elizabeth. "Uncontrolled Burn." The Goose, vol. 17 , no. 1 , article 25, 2018,
https://scholars.wlu.ca/thegoose/vol17/iss1/25.
Uncontrolled Burn 
   
 
I.  September 
  
The headline reads: Fires Rage. You 
Must Evacuate. What Do You Take? 
The question lingers over honeyed  
oatmeal as the paper goes unread. 
 
Suddenly the fire is something more.  
This is not just my family’s house;  
our communal home is ablaze  
while we feed the flames and  
promise to reform our ways. 
  
A child’s feet patter on the floor. 
Though the morning teems  
with early light, the hour  
is far too late for deliberation. 
No newspaper can prepare us for this.  
 
                                
II.  October 
  
Dusk, scent of decaying 
leaves, ember-tinted sky. 
Moisture, chill air,  
decline of a year’s growth. 
But to be undone is to open 
the possibility of being re-done. 
  
Geese call out their passage,  
and when, for a moment, I close my eyes, 
it is with the sensation  
that this is everything, that all I have been— 
or will be, or am—is wrapped  
in the damp odor of woods in October. 
  
My daughter follows the geese  
with her two-year-old eyes, and then, 
back in the garden, greets her father 
and sinks her fingers into the earth. 
  
1
Miller: Uncontrolled Burn
Published by / Publié par Scholars Commons @ Laurier, 2018
As she does, we take in a view of pines, 
our house, our neighborhood. 
The fires out west have calmed, 
snow arriving long before it will here, 
but the geese give us pause. 
He asks what, of all this, I would save. 
  
Ten, twenty years ago, I would have had  
a ready answer. I no longer know what to say. 
  
Within my gaze lie the dried husks 
of purple flowers from the butterfly bush 
and the soft-tipped milkweed he planted 
before our daughter turned one. 
  
I have no use for the photos we took 
of the slow-moving caterpillars, the chrysalis, 
no need for the message he sent to tell me, 
after one particularly harsh storm—whose winds 
claimed three large limbs of the redbud— 
that the caterpillars survived. 
  
Our home has been empty, this week, 
of the summer’s wildflowers, their remains 
nourishing the soil, absent the hummingbirds  
that hovered, drinking, preparing  
for their long flight home. 
  
I watch her digging in the dirt and smell October once again. 
  
This. 
I would save this. 
  
Why didn’t I think of it sooner? 
  
                                
III.  November 
  
It is late afternoon, and the only fire  
I see burns safely in the metal confines  
of the wood stove. I toss in the article,  
still unread, asking what I'd take  
if I had to evacuate. Each headline  
and heartache is its own kindling, 
2
The Goose, Vol. 17, No. 1 [2018], Art. 25
https://scholars.wlu.ca/thegoose/vol17/iss1/25
impossibility hovering in the margins. 
Surely this is someone else’s story, not mine, 
  
except the fire is in my mind, 
smoldering in the perfect silence  
of knowing too much, and also  
not enough. Having been betrayed,  
we risk betraying our children. 
 
Once, a small red fox approached  
and peered straight into this room, 
then left as quickly as it had arrived. 
We are poised and ready  
for all the wrong things.  
If anything is to rise from these ashes, 
I won’t be surprised to find it verb  
and not noun, or maybe a simple, 
universal cry: madre, nne, mare,   
                         ema, majka,  
                         mother. 
                                 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ELIZABETH MILLER is an educator who lives in Maryland, midway between the Blue Ridge 
Mountains and the Chesapeake Bay. She enjoys hiking with her husband and daughter. 
3
Miller: Uncontrolled Burn
Published by / Publié par Scholars Commons @ Laurier, 2018


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