By Edith Mack
Date: 16 January 1998

The Struggle

I cupped my hands around my flame
protecting it from the winds that dare
to take away my only source of warmth
and light.

I huddled closer to it, trying not
to breathe, fearing that my own
desperate attempt at recycling the air
would destroy the very thing I was 
trying to protect.

My flame flickered, afraid and
fighting, as the base shook underneath.
The weight too heavy for my
hands to support.

Then finally, my flame died.
Quietly, as though exhausted from
trying, it left me in darkness.
Frantically, the space surrounding
my softly lined shadows emptied 
itself of the responsibility of heat
and light.

I waited. The sun came and
reminded me of my flame.
Too far away. Unattainable, unreachable,
necessary.