Mining Fire

Faint at first, I got a whiff and choked —
a burning stench. I looked outside and there,
just beside our backyard oak,
the smoke effluviated in the air.
I ran to get my shovel to contend
and start to dig where smoke was coming through
the grass, but only stirred it up and made it thicken.
My eyes refused to see, my lips turned blue.
And now I’d dug until, drenched in grime
and deep inside the hole, I’d made my bed,
yet couldn’t recline or even try to climb.
I stood and craned my neck, then hung my head.
I’d sought the source, but still was blind.
The fire is far below and can’t be mined.