That's what we remember.
Bitter ashes on the tongue.
When we were young,
standing too close the edge of flames
-- some desire for attention --
ashes would settle into our mouths,
our teeth, on our tongue;
ashes clinging to our names.
Black grit invisible in the night
as the orange hues burned bright
and perhaps it was only later,
at home, staring into dreams,
that it would seem
as if the fire still consumed us.
Long after the embers had burned out,
we'd still be tasting
some ideas of the freedom
of that lone match sparking in our lives,
red coals glistening with possibilities.
--Kevin Hodgson, for GloPoWriMo 2017