Before the fall, in mid-September
I passed by the fire house and remembered the black ring of grass.
It was that patch of dead grass
Where the too hot kettle had sat
And had burned its mark into the ground beneath it.
We’d stood by the fire house,
Watching the kettle heat up,
Smelt the sweet fragrance of corn;
And felt the crisp autumn air around us
Which swirled the smells I can no longer stand.
The next few months I avoided that road.
I’d take alternative routes;
Longer trips down other streets
Just to avoid seeing the burnt circle
Amidst the healthy lawn.
The sight of that black grass
Brought back painful memories.
Those thoughts scorched my heart
Just as the kettle charred the grass beneath it;
Withering the innocent strands into nothing.
Although years have gone by,
I still hate the scent of cooking corn.
But I cannot loathe the road where singed grass once was.
The patch has healed;
It blends within the Just as the kettle charred the grass beneath it;
Withering the innocent strands into nothing.
Although years have gone by,
I still hate the scent of cooking corn.
But I cannot loathe the road where singed grass once was.
The patch has healed;
It blends within the other blades, other blades.