A Tiny Box of Things

The fire in the kitchen had spread, and fast.

Bellowing, black, and rising now, obscuring hope

Of escape from the oil pan flames.

Twisting gaseous serpents of red, hissing and biting

At all within its reach.

The blaze scorched not only at his skin, his clothes, his home, But at his life itself, spread out amidst those walls.

Photos, furniture, messy piles of laundry -

It did not discriminate in its consumption.

Rushing up the stairs to where it lay

Hidden underneath the bed, of course.

His burnt hands reached in, feeling for its sturdy form -

A tiny box of things; inside it holding a lifetime of warmth.

It was a radiant warmth, far more powerful

Than the inferno that now consumed

The husk of his once-home. Amidst the smouldering ruin of the house,

A solitary figure emerged. A smile on his face,

Despite the pain, the burns and the damages -

He’d rescued all that he held dear.