An ode to the fire that brings no fear

Emma Unglaub

Sparks fly

and you burst into life

and you are fire, 

you are a flame

beautiful, red, orange, blue.

But you are not a ferocious, unstoppably powerful wildfire, 

inspiring awe and respect in all who behold your blaze.

You are not a sleepy, peacefully burning bonfire, 

playful embers dancing in the wind 

as your brilliant, jovial light brings warmth to all near.

You are not the massive flames of a rocket ship, 

able to overcome the very force that keeps the universe turning 

as you help mankind take the next step into the future.

You are neither the flame of the hearth, 

nor the smithy, nor the pyre.

You are a fire,

But not the fire of which you dream.

You are the fire that clings 

to the wick of a candle.

Small and confined, 

you are no unstoppable force.

No comforting scent of the outdoors 

lingers in your twisting smoke, 

for you feed not on the bark flesh of trees 

but on braided strands of string

peeking out of a waxen column. 

You cook no food and melt no ore. 

You do none of this, and yet you do more.

Your smoke does not simply billow 

in a bulky black column-cloud—no, 

instead,

as your flame sways and leaps,

it dances with you, 

small and precise, 

nimble and agile,

a changeling, it twirls and curls in the air, 

twisting into a wild, majestic shape for 

one

fleeting

moment 

before launching into a new form.

Yes, you are small and confined, but 

that means you are a fire that brings no fear.

You leave none in terror at the thought 

that they might dream of you 

when dark night comes.

You bring peace to those who fear 

what may linger in their shadowed halls 

at the dead of night.

You are the comforter, the nurturer.

In the middle of a storm, 

when technology fails, 

it is to you that people turn 

to guide their way and soothe their panic.

For you are the light in the darkness.

You are hope.