The Shadow Before Fire

The wax awaits, a silent white altar,
the twisted wick, black and sleepless.
Yet already on the naked, tired wood,
a quiet form begins to compose itself.
Not an ardent daughter of living glow,
but mute echo of light not yet here,
a patient, reflective contour,
that keeps the promise of fire dwelling.

It has its gravity, a delicate weight,
it draws upon the boundary its own edge,
without the tremor of a gentle heat,
that dissolves the most divine certainties.
It is the silence of what is about to be,
the tale of an unfulfilled gesture,
a premonition that refuses to bend,
in waiting for a received flash.

It does not dance restless like a drawn veil
on the wall when the fire reveals itself,
but lies intact, a suspended secret,
that the distracted eye never unveils.
The shadow of an idea before it is flame,
of pure intention, not yet acted out,
keeper of the night that yearns for release,
a soul foretold by its own pact.