For the first time in a long time I’m putting my hand to poetry, and sharing it over at SheLoves Magazine today.

When that fire burns, I forget that this light of mine – it is small;
A flickering, dying light, kept alight by sure, surrounding hands,
But small nonetheless;
I am not the light of the world,
Though I do get to take part;
I get to carry my own,
Though it needs to be tended, and so, I force myself
To remember to stop. Habitually stop. Before the light is smothered.
I must burn, but not burn up.
Roar, but not rage.
Smoulder, but not go out.
Flicker, but not be quenched.

Check out the full poem, “The Fire,” over at SheLoves Magazine!

The Fire

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