Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Kindling

A dry and brittle twig, I lie alone
In cold and dark repose upon the mire,
Awaiting here the scrape of match on stone -
The bright and sudden light of flick'ring fire.
See now the match's laughing, cheery bloom -
Erratic dance of rise and swirl and flash -
As joyful flames with searing heat consume
My crumbling bark to powdered, graying ash.
Yet weep for this: a damp and dismal log,
Once proud and tall, now low upon the ground,
Half hidden by the rising mist and fog,
With morning's dew like rainfall all around.
Lie not, dear friend, in cold upon the dew;
Draw near, for I would share my warmth with you.

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