Ash

I am an ash dancing in the hot wind of my own swirling flame. I was a tree then the essence of me — the heat of my body — was released by fire.

Tree to wood, fire to coal, ash to ashes to dust to dust, earth to seed, tree to wood. I can’t be burned now, but at one time, I could.

The arch I make when I chop wood is the same high point of the path of the flame that burns me up.

Chopping wood, you heat yourself twice. Once for the chop and once for the pop of fire when that log ignites.

Cut haul chop repeat. This, the roundness of the log before the swing of the ax, is the circle of a life.

Tree to wood, fire to coal, ash to ashes to dust to dust, earth to seed, tree to wood. I can’t be burned now, but at one time, I would.

All my potential energy spent, I’m hot and cooling from wood to released energy into the air to ash, strewn by wind to land on to the shoulder of a tender of the flame or to swirl around the inside of the red ceramic Dutch stove we had for heat in our first house together, that when heated, glowed a deep burgundy.

I am what is left from the fire. Powdery soft, like burnt snow, with shavings and charcoaled memories of what was once wood. What I once could. When the flame burned it felt good. Take back the energy put into a tree, pay out the cash out, withdraw heat from the hot part, carry the bucket of ash out.

Tree to wood, fire to coal, ash to ashes to dust to dust, earth to seed, tree to wood. I won’t be burned now, but at one time, I would.