I knew, of course. Oak.
My raw palms bled and tingled with a delicious pain and I licked the blood off them. Seeing the open wounds, I felt like Jesus.
When the pile of wood was taller than I was, I stopped, sat down on the rustling floor and gazed happily at it. Every now and then it was lit by the electric storm that still raged out there somewhere, out there, far away... where nothing at all mattered. And when it was lit up, for that brief moment, it was a beautiful Christmas tree leaning against its Father Oak.