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Firewood Mornings That house is cold, silence seeping up the chimney like ghost smoke. Some mornings, when the wood splitter has gone off to the metal forest, I deliver. Would that I were a permanent logger, but I can only kindle kindness on short occasions, daring dark blades, oiled by the desire for leisurely cuts. But some nights I return to the clearing, hearing the crackle and pop of old bones, alone in pine-scented dreams, consumed, disappearing like sawdust in the wind.
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