Friction & Flame

It all starts with friction.

Rough sandpaper.

A wooden match.

A flick of the wrist.

Combustion.

The radiant flame licks its way playfully up the wooden stem,

And as it's lowered to the first candle -

The waxy wick slowly letting its walls down -

The brightness and heat intensify as, finally, it catches.

Wax.

Cotton string.

Three breaths of patience.

Illumination.

And with just three shakes of a hand the match goes out;

A black char and the wisp of smoke lingering in the air

Being the only remnants of the light that was there.

Except....

Except the flame lives on.

With a few hand movements and more breaths of patience,

One candle lights another and another and another,

Until it's returned to its place at the center.

And although the match is cold and charred

Where it lays on the table nearby,

The flame lives on.

The flame thrives.

The flame grows.

It's not just a single source of light.

It's a whole chorus line of dancers taking flight.

It shines at the window for the neighbors to see.

It is reflected in the eyes of you and me.

And it all started with

Friction.