a strike, a single strike
of flame, condensed, turning
dry sandalwood (or eucalyptus)
        to a burning pyre

at first, I was one wood
to be forgotten and seen as
unimportant— but now
energy flows through my branches
devouring what I was
        in favor of something new

raw power and sparks leave marks
upon the bark that used to shield me
from the harsh wind and insects
in the place I call home
        tearing shell apart bit by bit

now the insects stare in fear
as this is another form of shield
more volatile and harmful, yes
        but effective in its duty

I am a billion suns that rival
the lightning bugs which used to flock
to my branches— and this light
        is a blanket, enveloping me

if I am to die a burning pyre like this
I think it not a bad way to leave
as I will be remembered in the smoke
        I leave behind.