During that first hour the fire is too cold,
Starting small with paper and dry kindling,
It’s not too long before they start dwindling.
Add coals and logs, have patience, and behold,
As the fire consumes watch the flames grow gold.
As each log burns, I watch as it turns black
Then white. Knowing that as the flame dies back
All that is left, ash, as the fire grows old.
I pause, briefly, to consider the tree,
That grew during centuries long since passed,
Only to then be felled and burned by me
This traditionalist enthusiast.
And although I try hard to disagree
I must accept that this lifestyle won’t last.