May 20, 2013
It was so precious to him,
So close and sweet a thing,
The yellow and red flames
Brightening the dark interior
Of the shelter, the happy crack
Of the dry wood as it burned
That he could not leave it

He started,
ripping the bark using his fingernails
at first, and when that didn't work
He used the sharp edge
Of the hatchet,
Cutting the bark thin slivers,
Hairs so fine they were,
Almost not there.

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