Member-only story
I am a single sheet of paper paper,
alone, slow to burn,
but if flame touches us simultaneously,
my heat feeds from your heat
and we blaze upwards,
an inferno, rising
The smallest kindling ignites. . .
a look, a touch, a smile. . .
A quiet Sunday morning
is tantamount to arson.
A smoky room fills
from lack of flame —
As we burn stronger,
larger, not smaller,
we find we can breathe freely, deeply,
even as the flames
illuminate our faces.
by Emily Dickinson
You cannot put a Fire out —
A Thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a Fan —
Upon the slowest Night —You cannot fold a Flood —
And put it in a Drawer —
Because the Winds would find it out —
And tell your Cedar Floor —
