Poem about firewood

Brunt firewood Is not useless

It is not still

But it is dying.

The embers of what once was a joyful gathering still linger

The fire is preseumed to be dead

At this point in its life it is no longer a danger or a blessing.

Despie this, the piece of lumber still has a spark

It is coughing and begging for air,

For hope,

Yet Nobody answers

Thus there is no hope for life.

Or at least that was the outcome that was most plausible

Suddenly a hand reached out

A big gust of wind arose and captured the heart of charred timber

All of the useless charcoal flew away

The wood was alive.

"Who are you?"

I managed to mutter

"Your Savior"

Replied the forest.