She’s been put together;
spattered with
handfuls of shiny warning labels that
no one ever took the time to read,
only to reside in a lonely wooden box—
sheltered, still, and safe.
Living unlit and knowing nothing but patience,
she’s unaware of all the wonderment
that resides just beneath her own surface.
When the box finally opens,
she’s handled carefully
by strong, gentle hands that recognize
all of her treacherous potential.
She doesn’t flinch,
when those trusted fingers
strike the match
to light her fuse.
She doesn’t fret
when the heat catalyzes
a chemical reaction—
one far beyond her control.
She only sings
when her own jolt sends her rocketing
a hundred feet into the night sky.
And when she can’t stand the pressure
any longer
she swallows what pride she has left
and explodes—
a million strands of glittering fire
decorating the dark, ominous unknown.
Just for a moment, she hopes
she’s the most beautiful thing
those hands have ever touched.
But as she fizzles out into a small cloud
of smoke and something that once was,
she accepts her purpose
as the short-lived,
soon forgotten,
spectacularly unsuspected
good time.
© Bitsy Sanders, February 2016