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The Spark
November 30, 2014
Whispy flames
dance willingly;
without pause,
without thought.
They wonder not how they began,
nor where they go;
they simply wave
to those who don’t see them.
And I waved back;
I danced like a flame,
and I cared not what others
saw burn,
or char
or ashen.
Whispy flames
dance willingly
and I
was ignited.
© Ashley D., Philadelphia, PA
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From a young age, I was mesmerized by flame and fire, excited by its ability to make so many different movements without life. When I write poetry, I often write about the weather -- mostly about the rain, since that's what I have grown up with -- but when our teacher read us a poem about a small cabin with candle-lit rooms and dark shadows, I couldn't help but remember the amazement that I have for that flickering, ancient light of candles, and this poem was created.