Southern Winds
As the southern winds blew,
I, all but a firework maker’s daughter; stood still.
He demanded I learn the craft as he taught,
but that was never my intention at heart.
I sought not to carry forward his legacy,
but to build my own.
Every strike of iron, every spark,
every recipe of flame I disowned.
I rewrote every page, for I was young blood, I would know better than an old soul.
Then word spread: a great competition would be held, to crown the maker of the world’s finest firework.
I entered, and so did my father.
I, with my overconfidence; he, trusting only his steady skill.
I wandered foreign lands, unburdened by tether or responsibility,
while he called me home, offering another chance to begin anew.
I turned away, clutching rebellion in my fists, sparks clinging to my fingertips,
ignoring the map of his hands the southern winds kept pressing toward me.
I told myself: One day I will soar farther than these gusts,
chasing horizons I cannot yet name.
For tonight, I am tempest and spark,
and he is only the quiet fire that keeps the night from swallowing me whole.
I worked furiously at the end,
launching prototypes fortnight by fortnight,
painting dawn across the villagers’ skies.
Daily persistence, he had said,
but I dismissed it, a fool’s labor,
for true winners seize glory at the last minute.
I had the skill, after all.
On the day of the contest, I lit a thousand fireworks.
The sky erupted, the villagers frozen mid-step,
as though the sun itself had risen too soon.
Applause thundered. Glory was mine.
And then; his firework rose.
A quiet arc, no boast of colour, no frantic flare.
It opened into constellations, patterns traced with patient hands,
stars stitched across the heavens.
It burned a lot longer than mine,
clearer, finer; a magic I had never learned.
Was this the map he had tried to entrust me?
The lesson I had deflected?
My first conquest ended in silence,
as he stood among the crowd, not as victor, not as teacher, but as a passerby
with only a quiet smile and nod.
When the applause swelled, he had already returned to his shed.
No false humility, no “I told you so”, just the rhythm of work,
drop after drop, until they became an ocean.
Father, it was then that you who taught me: glory is fleeting, craft is eternal.
You worked until your shoes wore thin.
And when I finally earned the right to wear them,
I discovered that,
they were too large, too heavy to fill.
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