The Flame [Poem]

The Flame

The flame grew brightest when you blew on it,
Moved it, and contorted it,
Pushed it from a sizzle to a flame,
But, you blew too hard,
Now the flame is gone,
The oxygen that brings life killed it, how ironic.
But has the flame truly departed?
It has changed form,
It's smoke floats upward to mix with the clouds.
It is never really gone,
The higher elevation is where the forest fires burn,
Constant and permanent markers of how powerful the potential of an ember can be.