The Everglades are burning. I’m fifteen.
I open the window, knock out the screen
and crawl up the tiles to the apex of the roof.
Overhead the black clouds march on hooves
from the sunset to the ocean. It’s rare for the wind
to carry the sugar burns in my direction.
I assume the purpose of the fires is to make
the sugar sweeter, but besides covering the state
in smoke, all they do is make the harvest cheaper.
Some men spent a fortune to drain the river
but the cost was all up front. The stalks get so dry some-
times a piece of lightning starts the fire for them
and what’s left behind can’t help becoming tinder.
I think the land will tire of not being water soon.
Tonight the air is cold and smells like winter.
Ashes fall around me like pieces of the moon.
Copyright © 2025 by P. Scott Cunningham. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 7, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
