you hold the tiny sticks of wood
so gently in your clumsy fingers
like sacred talismans against
the Other, the Nothing, the Lost,
everything that might go wrong
in the darkness.
try to measure with just your gaze
how many left in the box
because to count them
over and over again
is a madness you can’t
admit to.
clutch them with your faltering grip
while everything around you
swirls in chaos:
this you will have
this you will keep
through the night.
but when the moment comes
for your trembling fingers
to make that fateful strike,
it’s not the light that saves you
not with how the shadows dance
in its wake.
it’s the heat on your face
knowing you are still alive
to feel it, and then
WHEW
letting it go
with a breath.
the scent that wafts to your
nose, clings to the blanket
that is your last defense against
the fall chill,
that says:
there was light here,
there will be again.
Yet another beautiful and thought-provoking offering – thank you!
I can't explain why, but this one might be my favorite of yours so far this year. Incredible <3
The manner in which you can compare the textures of wood and smoke is just... absolutely perfect for this theme. In fact, all of your comparisons and contrasts are amazing. I personally loved "clutch them with your faltering grip"