a kindling wood,
not big am I. If I stood up
straight I could pass for
a blade of grass. Splintered

and thin. Lost in a forest
of oaks and pines. Men walk
over me. Covered in brown
fallen leaves from the autumn

deciduous trees. I’m hidden under
the brush. My buds could flower
to plush valentines if I drank rain
water and ate sunshine. But I snapped

in two from the hooves of heavy
men wearing leather shoes. I bent
to break. No bigger than a match
now. But I can catch fire. I’m a pyre

of the black ink night. I light
the sky into a smoky orange ocean
from the motion of rubbing my broken
pieces together.