I'd assemble
small structures
Out of the kindling on the floor, and
I'd watch in horror
Through the empty space between my Fingers
As she'd raise the small hatchet, and proceed to
Lower it with haste
Splitting the wood
Into halves, then quarters
Just missing her extremities
Before tossing balled up newsprint
Into the opening, and
With the strike of a red bird
Politics and comic strips
Caught flame
The warmth, and comfort
Of the fire takes over

It still burns
In my memory