Its burning was a sudden flutter, a flash of flame, a brief song. From its slender wood, a destiny gave light, then died down, where it belonged.
Now it is ash, an empty shell that cries no sound, a piece of charcoal, nearly ethereal. In its fragile shape, a gentle memory holds, a solemn knowing.
It is no more wood prepared for a fresh blaze, nor the flame that consumes and then fades away. It is the fire’s spirit, bare and stark, a residue bound by nothing else’s mark.