Green wood is slow
to crack or burn.

Father chops the blocks
while I gather kindling-

the work between
a man and his daughter.

When it rains, the fire
is moist and green, spitting

tiny, silver sparks.
My life began like this-

two sticks grinding
furiously together

and what was made;
a spark so faint,

so doubtful, they
called it daughter.

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