2

In the stillness,
I stand at the edge of night,
a breath held between the world’s turning.
The sky is dark,
too heavy with waiting,
and the earth beneath me is quiet,
as if it too remembers what it’s lost.

I strike the match—
a flare of orange sparks,
then the thin thread of flame
that trembles in my fingertips.
For a moment, it is all I have,
a fragile thing
that burns but will not last.

The smoke rises,
climbing toward the stars
that are beginning to fade,
as if they too are waiting
for something—
for the first light
that will crack open the dark,
split it into fragile pieces
of dawn.

In the shadows,
I am both stillness and motion,
the promise of warmth
and the coldness of what’s passing.
Time holds its breath.

I wait for the light to claim the earth
and for the flame to fall
into the soft ash of what was.