The wood is slow
to crack when it's green.
Father chops the blocks
while I gather kindling-
the work between
a man and his daughter.
When it rains,
the fire is moist
and green, spitting
tiny, shooting stars.
My life began
like this-
two sticks
grinding
furiously together and what was
made;
a spark so faint,
so doubtful,
they called it
daughter. 
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