the season of fire

begins

with the selection

of suitable trees,

the ones that know

how to fall conveniently

accustomed to affording torsos

to the deepest sacrifice,

the most intent saw,

abandoning new-born leaves,

without resistance

to the axe,

crippled before the fall.

timber symmetrically cut,

log piled on top of log,

to fit the amputation in the eye,

in multiple pieces

learn lives to lose

on the spot where once,

a single body was.

and neither gravity

nor the flaming speed

finish the stories

we tell with our ashes

at the bottom of buckets.

 

the unknown poet

suspects

the roots sprouting

deep back in the forest

are the words hunting us.