Sat on the mismatched dark
wood dining chair: look to an unseen distance: stare, calm, wait for words that
are looking for somewhere, for what is a word that is never spoken?
An absence, a nothing, unplaced.
A scented candle in a tumbler on the mantelpiece: a thing specific.
Waxy sputter, the last dance of a fat low flame, catches the reflective curve of
glass, softer and softer as it shrinks; blue glimmer, red bud, glowing memento,
dark wick, captured soot. Like any candle might, recognisable. This one leaves
cinnamon smoke.
Hmmmm, nice. Cinnamon smoke. One of my daughters-in-law gave me a bunch of scented waxes and a gizmo for melting them in. The cinnamon in one of my favorites.
ReplyDeleteYou created vivid images with your words. As always.
Cinnamon is one of my faves too: for taste and smell. Not suggesting we should eat wax! :-)
ReplyDeleteCinnamon smoke. If I could bottle it I would spread it on my toast with butter. Happy Belated New Year Lisa!
ReplyDeleteHappy Belatedness reciprocated Heather- cinnamon smoke butter- now I am wondering to to get that flavour on my toast! :-)
ReplyDelete