Little Furnace
A pyre of chopped wood, arranged in her pattern. An ember, a sunset, to set it ablaze.
The whole forest drifts to bid her farewell. The trunks, the souls, all quiver in the smoke; the heat betrays their mournful stillness, their ever being the same.
And the line starts from the ground, harmonious and long, a row of intrigued spirits and finally tamed magic eyes of water and blank spaces, forever without a replacement, without the words to describe.
The birdsong is sleeping; there is no telling when it will awaken. They let the fire fill the void, or tell her story for everything else.
Its voice rises to the ears of the breeze; it melts in cinders, in clouds, a vortex to the heavens. Nothing is left to them but to watch fire keeps the pace while their lives are slowed down, fire holds the memories, turning their friend into ashes and the ashes into new friends. It is fire to lend them sounds, when it feels like there will never be any again.
Feeding on her shell, renewing the cycle, it is fire to sing the evening songs tonight. And her colour, and the thought, warms their skin a little more.
For such delicate ashes, it is a merry rhythm.