she gave me a box of matches
small enough to rattle between
two of my fingers

in the dark, we sat alone
striking them
and like a magic trick
the light would burst forth
and scatter like laughter
fill the empty breeze
with something warm

we watched the flames
alive and changing
let them grow and crawl
right until they nipped
the tips of our fingers

we’d shake them out
just before we got
burned
watched the smoke
rise and sway, smelled
so sweet, powerful
as the last light
slowly faded
like falling asleep
or turning to stone

over and over
this was transformation
and it was in our hands
over and over
until the box no longer rattled
and before us lay
a pile of ash
a mountain
a change we had caused