Melting into a windowsill, a candle
stuttered a flame, bowing,
and straightening, casting the room
in frolicking shadows,
mimicking mischievous shapes,
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.
Moon-bathed, and fragrant with Spring
in her branches, she wakes to
find no watchful sun,
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
and though she first despairs,
the illuminating wisdom
into her roots,
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
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,
is it, simply, not a pipe?