A Hushed Ember

 I can feel the smoothed

heft of the shovel handle

running its full length

from the metal blade 

down to the butt as I let

it run through the circle 

of my hand wrapped

gently around its neck.

Smooth to hold with the safe

sharp ruts of its cracks running 

the span - polished as it were - 

where there are no splits.

A clearly kiln-dried

implement, sturdy and

rugged in its every cell.

A whole different feel to

the isness of this wood than

there is to a damp and heavy

cedar stump rotting slowly

with the fruit of decay -

Panellus stiptichus or

Omphalotus nidiformus.

Foxfire by a common 

Appalachian appellation -

or “faux”fire in the end.

Somehow a fiery glow

is set loose across the surface

of the crumbling decomposition

of disintegrating wood - like

an invisible apple sauce running

down sides of old bark and

heartwood to the dirt.  The spirit

of the grain perhaps in its final

throws of life.  Burning bright 

before it disappears completely.

Watch for the final glow

of life, the signature presence

of a sensual undoing of all that

was.  A whispered entropy and 

a thundering crash announcing -

preparing the earth to

receive the final offering

of the tree. 

A fading glow;

an aria to concealment.

A hushed ember

burning out in hidden

quatraines.

What is the faux-fire of

your life, of

your dying?

Image credit: Ylem, Wikimedia Commons (public domain)