the woods can burn,
the first spark i've seen it set.
i catch ash in the center of my palm
like snowflakes falling from the
incandescent heavens.
it is charcoal, the little ember
already extinguished.
all that remains is its skeleton,
black.
defiled.
when i am lucky,
i can catch the purest,
white ash.
but...
i can feel the heat fall out
of the little pores in my
shard of oak, and it mutates
into a dark, black monsterish
reminder.
of the fire.
just like all the others.
