A trough to fill
with sand and water. An army
to protect our beeswax
block of candle. The thing itself
is worth saving
till that moment
our wick heads appear
to coax relief
from concentrating
too much before
dinner guests arrive, their boots
caked in glorious earth.
I could be tied up, could
hide in this thick
mass, dictating the time
it will take
to self consume
a trail into tilted shadows. I could
be barley twisted
burning at both ends
of aroma’s blocking. Or, I could
become intoxicated
by this power to refuse
devotion visible
against a snuffer’s insides.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 