I am not grieving, even
          underneath the forest canopy

though the edges of my life have curled
          where the leaf litter crumbles

like paper set on fire, charred and turned
          into decay that feeds

a more precious nature due to its
          brush with death and more

tinder-like qualities: dry, brittle, catches with
          abundantly close

vigor, burns long enough to release
          carbon and other chemicals that

heat and light and
          catch onto dry roots nearby to

start a bigger fire,
          make a little life.