but an ember

there lives within each of us a spark

it flickers, dances, flits about

from place to place

dwells only a moment before flying away again.

(fleetingly, like a single lifetime)

there is a matchbox on a shelf

i should reach for it, take one -

lift it, poise it,

spin my ember into motion

make something of untapped potential

(matches breathe life to flames, after all)

but yet i hesitate:

what if?  the spark that transpires

may produce a drowning blaze

what if i can’t control it?

what if nothing happens at all?

(incessant murmurs draw me back)

strike and strike futilely

flickering but never igniting

tauntingly living only in imagination

“why,” it seems to say,

“why would you think your little spark

could become a flame?”

(and it speaks true.)

it’s easier to never take the match at all.

never search the soul for the ember

never try to control the flame

never (i must confess) learn how to strike that match

for i never knew how to do it at all.

(never, never, never, never…)

how?  why should i try?

why should i learn?

why take a risk?

surely, i can live with my what-ifs

my could-have-beens and it’ll-never-works

there’s enough warmth here to survive.

(...right?)

and yet… and yet.

ignoring it was never an option for me, was it?

why - if i could race along with the tongues that reach

crackling and snapping with frenetic energy

carrying me up thrillingly high -

why waste possibility?

why only survive?

(shivering and dulled, wishing for warmth)

(when i could soar as a phoenix?)

there’s a spark there

i don’t know how to make it a flame

but

i can learn.

learn how to take the match

learn how to strike it just right

learn how to stoke the fire

and learn

how to reach my own potential.

(awakening, at last.)