Wood Burning - Cheyenne Bailey

I love the warm glow of our woodburning stove.
 And the rising lines I can only see from shadows and sunrays shining through the windows.
 I can feel those lines take a walk, traveling up through my hands.
Three levels of intenseness. Too little. Perfect. Too much.
 They start young and vibrant.
 Breaking the air.
 As they grow old, they become cold.
Becoming the air.
They remind me time has passed and I have wasted it for comfort.
They die as new lines are born. The young heat that makes our fire glow.

 But the glow will get thinner and thinner until nothing is left.