To burn real logs, cut from real trees
that lived and died right over the hill,
and sawed to length by a real man
seems such a privilege.
Perhaps it has always been so.
But in another generation, no one
will know. Not here, in our managed
and engineered world.
So I bask in the heat of this fire,
the cat beside me, savoring
its soft warmth, and vowing
to carry this moment, with praise,