Strike of the match

Ash-gray February
Dozes and dreams

Clouds miles deep

Colors fast asleep—

But for this small flame,

A brief sun burning on winter’s edge.

First came sharp strike of the match-flame,

then a quick bloom of light—

Wisp of ivy smoke spirals to a ceiling 

stuck fast with glow-in-the-dark stars, 

for times like these. 

Now the candle shimmers from mirror-washed glass,

Golding my eye,

Holding my thought,

Feeding my cloud-swathed hunger

with a clear mango light. 

So why circle my thumb over each palm in turn 

as I listen to my heart’s throb,

and why this silent sway of my body?

Like an incantation

Like a song I can’t hear but dance to anyway

Like a cat kneads its bed before settling to sleep?

Am I reading the declinations? 

Measuring the mounts, muscles, valleys, bones, the lunarity of skin,

the scars, if I had any?

The Russian nesting doll of February 

Finds us edging toward a sun we may not see

Music we may not hear

Feeling our way by the light of the cat-napping stars

Guided by verities like hearts beating and candles flaming.