A match flared in the dark. Then another.
Whispers of flame scurried the base
and built to a roar of full-bodied heat.
Piled were planks, chairs, tables; a pew
skewered through. Broken branches
protruded the heap like fingers reaching.
This was the stuff of life. Furniture to fill
a house, wood to build a shed, burning. Soon,
you couldn’t tell a thing from that blackened mass.
And the blaze had no preference, consumed
the lot with no regard, flushed out fireflies
that bloomed and expired into the night.
Our combined hush carried to the morning.
The cling of woodsmoke laid deep in our coats,
our hats, our skin. The ashes we’d slept in.