Red and Splinters

A flash of red.

A pile of splintered wood.

A memory of a young girl hidden in the branches, of rough bark and fishing poles, of grasping a finger with tiny ones of her own while stomping over pine needles and dusty trails. 

The smell of burnt pancakes and smokey bacon.

A flash of red, a pile of splinters at the base of a calico-ed tree.

The branches are gone, the heart is soft and tunneled, patches of faded gold naked to the rain.

He said it would kill the tree, all that pecking, as he traced a scar on his cheek.

Afraid to fall apart, fearful of being riddled from without, the core of this one died within.

The woodpecker finds the life inside, chips away at rotting rings, crumbles wood into earth. 

My hand falls from his to cradle the splinters.

And to let them go.