Fifteen ways of looking at a flame.

I
The match sparks once against the matchbox.

II
I blow out the candles
on the massive chocolate cake.
I feel a strange longing within.
I don’t want to grow up.

III
The flame burns softly upon the matchstick,
nearing the fingers of the pyromaniac.

IV
We huddle freezing,
shivering with anticipation as much as cold.
The sticks slowly catch alight.

V
The grass catches alight as the match begins its eternal burning on the clean earth
below.

VI
She draws the smoldering end of the stick from the flames
watching with intrigued eyes
as the steady flow of thin smoke
goes flying
into the morning air.

VII
The flame powers the steam engine along the tracks;
Coal burning, smoking the crisp morning in a dangerous black cloak.

VIII
This world is black; the campfire is a beacon.
We sit quietly together, watching.
A reflection of the flames dances across her eyes;
she is beautiful.

IX
The soft scent of roasting food wafts inharmoniously through the air,
grilled carefully over the cackling fire,
Laughing maniacally as those around enjoy the soft laughter.

X
A million acres.
the uncontrollable firestorm
that dark, dark February Saturday.

XI
Lightning strikes once upon the dying tree.
The flames engulf it as the electricity sparks through the air,
making hairs stand on end.

XII
Bitter cold of July,
I cannot bear to rise and face the frost.
I need a flame.

XIII
The bombs sparked our camp alight.
I watched those I cared for burn to death.
The flames are cruel, not loving.

XIV
I flick my wrist and the phenomenon occurs.
Energy, transferred down my hand,
becomes a tiny piece of frictional force.
One spark causes an immediate chemical reaction;
the phosphorus ignites with a release of light and heat.
I have just lit a match.

XV
I puff out the tiny flame;
the incense refreshes me
With a rush of nostalgia.
♠ ♠ ♠
Was written with a friend.