A Matter of Wick

The drumming torrent against the outer eaves provided adequate white noise, but my hands required an exercise in tactile discretion before power-down. On the low desk sat an unlit vegetable-wax stub in an earthenware dish, its braided cotton wick curled into an unyielding, tight knot from previous handling. Rather than wrenching the brittle fibers, I unslung my bo staff, sat cross-legged on the rush mat, and used a slender wooden toothpick to gently ease open the central weave. Two measured nudges separated the charred tip into three neat, upright strands. The wick now stands plumb, primed for clean combustion whenever needed.