Logs don’t lie
They burn
Or they lay still
Awaiting combustion or some
Shape made useful by the knife.

Its life knows first the tree
Then the use at least to fall
Back into soil for the next generation.

But, burn it must
To kindle inspiration for
What greater things we can create.

The power of industry
To Cook
To Forge
To Kiln —

The fire burns in the human spirit
Raging for us
To free ourselves
From the blue light
Of the black box
That consumes
Our waking moments.

By Makar

Stephen Sutherlin is a designer, poet and musician. He writes poetry about life in the southwest and enjoys metrical lyricism.

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