The box was old the strip was rough

The box was old, the strip was rough,

a sound like sandpaper.

First, a scrape, not quite enough.

Just wood and dusty air.

Then, harder, quick, a sudden rip

of friction, raw and tight.

A tiny flare, a sulphur trip,

a brief and startling light.

It caught the wax, a gentle lick,

then settled to a flame.

That sudden, perfect, vital click,

pronouncing its own name.

Just this small thing, so quick to start,

to banish what was dim.

A fragile, temporary art,

from nothing, limb by limb.