Identity Crisis of to be Kindling
A simple stick, from two perspectives
A naked stick lies on the edge of grass and brick
divots where there once were knobs.
Tiny scratches lined the slender light wood,
crafted for magical mimicry.
to swish and flick
within soft, fat-fingered hands.
But now it sits, listening to crackles
as large, calloused hands gather more of its kind.
Not with the care of fat fingers,
but with indifference.
These sticks that thought themselves wands
find themselves — forged — in cremation flame.