It doesn't matter you
didn't love me
I have the fire for
warmth,
the dog for
company.
Crackling wood becomes my conversation partner;
Crackling wood becomes my conversation partner;
old tales of foxes and
faeries,
deep within the green
canopy.
Is this beech or oak?
I'm too lazy to get up
and check.
I only know it's not
the distinctive bark
of birch or cherry,
or the reluctant flame
of Elder,
though the green flame
indicates copper
a nail in the embers
or the flare of boiling
blood
from the shirt you were
wearing
when you asked for a
divorce.
At least the pyre is
hot
and your bones burn
hotter.
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