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⇢(1) Four Windows
⇢(2) Nail Clipper, Peach, Face, lodging and a Hug
⇢(3) ember
⇢(4) the bench above
⇢(5) shaded green
⇢(6) the bird that cries at night
©2025 Sanuk Kim.
All rights reserved.
(9.19.2024)
In the stillness of gray ash,
a small ember sleeps.
Now and then, a soft breeze stirs it awake,
flickering into a mischievous spark,
or becoming a warm little flame.
At the tail end of summer,
a dry pine tree is tossed into the fire.
Thick resin oozes out,
coiling around the ember,
the scent of pine overwhelming the air,
spinning everything off-balance.
The resin, like oil, feeds the ember’s blaze,
its glow intensifying,
flickering with renewed life.
In the searing heat,
it burns, breathing painfully.
The charred air scorches the chest.
It waits for the flames to subside,
yet something yearns to surrender
to the consuming heat,
to disappear within it.
Morning comes.
The pine is gone, turned to ash,
and only the cold, hardened resin remains.
Buried under the gray,
the ember stirs, restless,
longing to flare up once more.
Even if it means burning everything to nothing,
even if it all turns to dust,
it yearns to burn brighter, just once—
to exhaust itself completely,
until nothing remains.
Before it drifts back to sleep,
the ember whispers:
“Can ash ever turn to oil?”