Stick
It’s just a piece of kindling.
A shard of cherry split
from around a knothole.
Kindling: something used to build,
then sustain a fire.
Except
it’s not
just that.
It’s more.
For this flame
does not consume: it builds.
It is. It grows.
The wood: twisted, gnarled,
sharp, rough, and yet, smooth.
is us, is life.
It’s just a stick:
a dozen layers of life’s elements
burnished gold.
It will not tarnish. Nor shall we.
It’s just us:
just two sticks stuck to the other
by a kindled belief in tomorrow.
Twisted together, gnarled by time,
sharp-edged, rough-hewn.
And yet, smooth as a tongue of flame.