I say death comes with life; like corn with pear. Like how a tree – alive- is cut down – dead. Then its dried up, decayed body births logs which in turn births splits.
The splits are an army of combustion. The splits are children playing, holding hands, scenting of the woods. The splits are a seething mass journeying to its destination.
We call the splits firewood. Oh, those splits like brushstrokes, with their brownishness and their milkishness and their greenishness. Their relationship and their contrast and their clusters. We call it firewood.
But it is not because of any of these we love firewood. We love it for its flammability, for its economic value.
There is more to firewood than its usefulness – surely there is more to everything than what it does; has.
I see the firewood now, laughing and intertwining. Tonight, they will make fire; they will dance and colour the night a glowing living red and a filmy white. Tonight, those dead wood will be alive.