The Unfolding

The Unfolding

by Nancy Bowman Ballard.

Caveman
strikes two twigs
hoping for a spark
to ignite into fire,
breathes frosty fog
in the cold air,
shivering and lost.
What will the unfolding be,
modern dwellings,
electric heat
left in the cold,
create by folly,
searching for tiny sparks.
One lone man holds a match,
illuminating eager faces,
passed from man to man,
waiting to regain
’til there’s heat, light without, within,
getting the wheels to turn again.

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