Match

On a damp kitchen shelf, a solitary match lies,
its wooden shaft a humble brown, the sulphur tip a shy surprise.
When struck against the rough‑hewn side, a sudden flare ignites—
a tiny sun that dances brief, then surrenders to the night.

It whispers of the hearth’s warm glow, of candles held aloft,
of birthday wishes caught in smoke, of stories softly tossed.
Yet in its fleeting, brilliant breath, it bears a quiet truth:
even the smallest spark can kindle hope, if only for a ruth.

So let us strike our own small matches, strike them loud and clear,
for every fleeting flame we kindle can chase away the fear.