You are the match and the flame,
the firefly and the jar.
You are the creaky wooden swing
and the chip in a coffee mug.
You are the first star at night
and the hammock in the breeze.

However, you are not a black tuxedo,
the flag at half mast,
a mamba in the reeds.
And you are certainly not the clock chiming noon.
There is just no way that you are the clock chiming noon.

It is possible that you are a crashing ocean wave,
maybe even the forest’s tallest tree,
but you are not even close
to being a balloon in the clouds.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the last song on the CD
nor the crystal chandelier.

It might interest you to know
that I am a thunderclap shattering the night.

I also happen to be they oyster’s closed shell,
a peacock’s lost feather
and a keyless silver lock.

I am also a piano concerto with a few sharp notes
and handprints in the wet concrete.
But don’t worry, I’m not the match and the flame.
You are still the match and the flame.
You will always be the match and the flame,
not to mention the firefly and—somehow—the jar.