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