Have you ever watched a flame struggle against the wind?

It dances, at first, with the wind
Like a proud boxer throwing shadow punches into the air
             faking left and right
   bobbing in and out.

In no time, however, this energetic confidence transforms
    into the desperate flailings
    of one who knows he is outmatched.
Its energy is wasted, winded.
It keeps itself low and fades out often
    to avoid the relentless punches

It gets smaller, gathering itself,
   Shoulders and back hunched, arms crossed over heaving chest
Into a smaller self, the core:
   A tight blue ball at the tip of a black wick.

I watch this, one February evening, in a breezy Buddhist temple
   and feel a kind of omnipotence.
I wait with the patience and power of God
   and watch the pathetic flame try to save itself.
But then, suddenly,
         irresistably,
I throw my hands around it, to save it.

It comes back hesitantly, unwillingly
   jerking about
      between blue ball and orange flame
      between fear and trust
Testing the air, doubting the sudden stillness.

Until, at once, it leaps into fullness
    in the circle of my hands.
It stands strong and stable.
Stretching taller and wider,
      a pillar of fire,
It consumes the air around it,
Filling it with warmth and light.

A flame at its fullest is a bold declaration of serenity.

I don't want to take my hands from this flame.
But it's cold and getting dark,
    so I do, slowly,
And seeing it start its proud dance,
I turn around quickly and run
Down the three stone steps to the temple gate.
Once more I look back,
    just to see
The huddled blue ball wink its last light
And disappear into a thin string of smoke
Taken by the wind.