Fire in the Morning

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As I do every morning, I sit on the bench in the garden and drink my coffee and smoke a fag. I look around me; the garden, at this point of spring, is an unholy mess: seeding flats everywhere; empty plastic flowerpots everywhere; lumber everywhere; the fire bowl heaped with cleared out branches and bits of lumber. 

The fire bowl, I decide, holds the detritus that's making the whole garden a mess, so I light the fire.

The yard, the garden, the bench, the disarray, the fire

The fire. It's gold, and the lavender morning light together, priceless.

When this beautiful fire dies down, the garden's still a mess, but I care much less. I get my trowel to plant the cosmos and morning glories my friend R gave to me yesterday.