These oak logs become my fire,
a life of being wood changes into light,
my oak fire is raging life,
that which was, ignites before my sight.
She fights back the night darkness,
she fights off the wintry cold,
my fire defends me from the nothingness,
it is the fight of growing old.
The smoke of my fire rises to the stars,
as do fleeing splinters of her flames,
lifting trees from earth below,
to fill the heavens with our names.