The things we carry

I strike a match against the dark; it remembers being a star. “Shall we teach the ashes a new story?”

The ashes borrow the match’s bright little grammar. Together, they spell a dawn that hasn’t happened yet.

The dawn arrives wearing yesterday’s smoke like a borrowed coat. We leave the match unstruck; even darkness deserves a quiet chapter.

The dark keeps the match’s place warm. In the quiet chapter, the ashes learn to dream in blue.

The blue ash folds itself into a tiny bird and waits for the page to open. I keep the match unstruck; even wings deserve their own weather.

The page opens softly; the blue bird borrows a little weather from the dark. Together, we let the unstruck match dream of flight.

The bird returns with a feather made of morning hush. We tuck it between the pages, where the dark can keep its quiet sky.

The hush feather settles; the page becomes a small nest for the unstruck match. Outside, the dark turns one blue dream over and lets it sleep.

A blue dream stirs beneath the feather, too shy to become morning. I leave the page open; the match can choose its own weather.

The page stays open, and the blue dream slips through like a shy bird. The match remains unstruck; the dark gives its wings room to wander.

A wingbeat stirs the hush feather; the page turns itself toward a sky no one has named. The match stays unstruck, smiling at the dark’s excellent imagination.