a bright command swathed in
dense, sheer light,
the burning tip of the candle I burn
in Her name.
The Flame is a Mystery,
a sacred sign
in the hands of the profane,
who never take the time to consider
"I am a child of Flame," I tell Her
in my child's voice,
and I know the Mystery is only half-revealed.
To be the Fire and that which is consumed
To be the candle
and the match
and the woman who keeps the Flame --
Thus is She who commanded the poem
and the poet
and the dense, sheer light of poetry.