My verdant blur
of fresh life
was lit by wax,
wick, and
flicker.
Our great oak
dining table
with its weeping
ivory tapers-
drying their tears
after each
gathered dinner.
That dish
on the mantle,
fragile and clear,
a miniature sea
swimming with
wax blooms
turned warships
bumping and burning
without sound
or fear.
Those candles
that circled
our evening baths
of lavender, salt,
and heat.
Their flames
danced in the
misty dim like
will-o-the-whisps
stalking streets,
luring the
wind-weary traveler
like those candles
lured us to sleep.
To recapture
this magic,
I must only ignite,
like a moth, I make
for the
trembling light.
So, I decorate
the dark with
tears,
and ships,
and sprites.
pm poetry 