A match aflame
is held aloft.
Fire focuses
the eye, the mind.
 
But these eyes aren’t
a match. A flame
won’t catch these eyes,
any of them.
 
The field once green,
now roaring from
a match, a flam-
ing horizon.
 
Make a wish. Then
a quick escape.
Behold, beware
a match aflame.


This poem is my response to a writing challenge--four stanzas of four lines each, four syllables per line, with one line repeated in lines 1, 2, 3, 4 of stanzas 1, 2, 3, 4.