The Match-Stick Girl’s Fire

Silver eyes scan the road at twilight,
Tracking purple fog.

Flashlight eyes, cold as flint stone,
Their spark a smoldering of embers

Red dark circles under her eyes,
Imprints of old anger left behind.

Without a sound,
Match sticks strike.

Match-stick girl, cold and alone,
Do not douse your fire with tears.

Ash-child run,
Leap lightly, flicker like a dancing flame,

Burn away the should and could haves that leave their dingy sheen,
Bleach the strife-stains to golden, turquoise, sylvan green.

Shining girl put match sticks down,
Hair singed black, now auburn once more,

Whittle futures with the sharp edge of the present,
That lamp behind the map of yourself, turn the switch.

Watch your space from inside out take shape,
Definite, solid, the topography of relief.

Then firefly girl, find you rising
Rise and rise, and open your eyes,

Fire bird’s child, glow as the night infused with dawn, from near to far,
Radiant, like a wild and silent star, you are.


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