In winter, we burned what had to be burned.
Snow made a bowl of the world,
held the edges,
kept the woods from incinerating intention.
Chris tended the small things—
kindling, air, patience.
I stood nearby, full of heat,
ready to give the fire
what it was born to take.
I wanted the heavy pieces sooner than was sensible—
thick limbs,
trunks that endured
too many seasons, then died in place.
Fire does not like crumbs
once it knows its strength.
I ought to know,
with most of my life
now behind me.
Still, the wood was wet.
Rotten with water.
Not ready.
So I waited—
because force, to move safely,
must meet timing.
Fire teaches this
if you watch long enough.
Flames do not argue with weight,
do not persuade density.
They enter where they can—
bright tongues flicking
through openings—
exit where they must,
and stay
until form gives up pretending:
a pile of bright chunks
collapsing into itself,
days later
hot ash.
This is why we don’t
walk away for good
until it’s done.
This is not about wood.
It is about power
that knows how to wait
without dimming,
about heat
that does not scorch the house
to prove itself.
This is how force moves safely:
contained,
trusted,
timed—
and when released,
complete.
~ bj 2022