Keeper of the Quiet Flame

There is a flame that does not rage.
It does not devour.
It does not destroy.
It lives in the spaces people forget to look.

In the hearth after everyone has gone to sleep.
In the hands of a woman kneading bread at dawn.
In the first green shoot that does not ask permission to grow.

Brigid lives there.

Not only in fire,
but in the moment a poem arrives unannounced,
in the moment a wound closes,
in the moment someone decides to begin again.

She is the soft spark.
The patron saint of almost.
The goddess of not-yet-but-soon.

They say she is a goddess of fire,
but it is not the fire of endings.
It is the fire of making.

Blacksmith fire.
Kitchen fire.
Candle in the window fire.
The fire that says:
You can come in.
You are not alone in the dark.

She walks the edges of winter
carrying a small sun in her hands,
planting it in the frozen ground
and calling it spring.

If you cannot find your way,
light a candle.
If you cannot find your voice,
write one honest sentence.
If you cannot find your strength,
warm your hands and try again tomorrow.

This is her magic.
Not lightning.
Not storms.
Just the quiet, stubborn flame
that refuses to go out.