Burn

Melting into a windowsill, a candle

stuttered a flame, bowing,

and straightening, casting the room 

in frolicking shadows,

mimicking mischievous shapes,

sinister silhouettes.

He passively watched 

the shadows on the ceiling, 

sprawled in an empty bed:

no will to rouse from his place

to snuff the candle out.

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Pear Tree

Moon-bathed, and fragrant with Spring

in her branches, she wakes to

find no watchful sun, 

solitary.

This independence, a freedom,

far from those who would

take apart her petaled splendor,

climb her to take an unripe fruit,

or snap her twiggy fingers,

because they have the strength.

Under starry veil, she finds

comfort in the waxing light that

coats her with verdure, and hums

a melody claiming 

solidarity, 

and though she first despairs,

the illuminating wisdom

now permeates 

into her roots,

her blossoms, 

resplendent luminaries.

Ceci n’est pas une pipe

Seven years of age, and such a

grasp on what is real and not.

My son tells me, 

his expression severely

serious, stony eyes do not blink,

“I never saw a picture of a French

word.”

What treachery our eyes are subjected 

to, and still we see.

I could paint a canvas of striking

imagery with words, yet they are 

not images, merely scribbles

against some paper scraps I had 

lying near me, reciepts, 

and blank notecards intended for study,

half-sketched ideas preserved.

Is it not the idea and the feeling

captured in the artwork

we are to consider,

or

is it, simply, not a pipe?