Early autumn hasn’t quite arrived with force, so the speaker builds only a small fire—just enough to take the edge off a brief dawn chill. Even the hummingbird is still at the blooms, so the fire is deliberately modest. The poem moves through the rituals of gathering wood, pruning oak and ash, stacking fuel indoors, and coaxing a flame from paper and twigs. There’s quiet pleasure in the glow and in a dark cup of tea, but the day soon warms up; sweaters and chore coats come off, and sweat returns as summer flares briefly back to life. The mood is cozy and unhurried, yet edged with awareness that this warmth is temporary. The final line makes that feeling explicit: the same ground that will one day hold our graves is slowly growing cold. It’s a gentle, unsentimental look at seasonal change and mortality.
The First Few Fires — Summary
The first few fires of autumn laid by me Here in this stove aren't much; I acknowledge Even the hummingbird's still caressing blooms, so I Feeling only a brief dawn chill, build accordingly.
In thickets of summer I range about, Ratcheting my long-handled pruner among stout sticks, Stealing from oak and ash, letting in a little light. These I pile in the long room where that stove squats.
Fueling it with paper and a stack of twigs, admiring Even the least hints of gold and vermillion therein, We sit back, warm enough for one dark cup of tea. For awhile; then day overtakes us, ready
In sweater and chore coat to see to hens; Really, we shuck those soon enough, sweat on our Ears and eyelids, summer reborn briefly in our knees. So; until the ground grows cold that will hold our graves.