Lighting Up Redux

I'm standing at the open window trying to light a match. It's raining, not just a whisper but a full-throated howl. Rain does not extemporize. It states and restates itself, driving into the ground. Outside, a train wails. Church bells flare against the grey. I strike the red head of the match against the box and strike it again, once more, so many times the striking becomes like breathing, something I do to stay alive.

I want fire because it is raining. Because it is raining, the match won't light. Two hours ago, the woman who built the wooden fence flush with with our backyard washed every grey spear clean. There's an allegory here somewhere but it just won't kindle; I put the match between my teeth and bite down.