Little candles all burn bright
yours burnt out
the wick glowing white hot
Little ghosts now little ash.
You both part of a
no ceremony is death
no vigil nor hallowed spot
not even a pew
for me to visit you.
Gone each exactly one year apart.
And the nine
head bowed shoulders hunched
and bunched the sharp edges
of them ratcheting like a step ladder
into a broken heart.
You mattered, sweet little ones.
Number nine's head is hanging low.
Lighting the votive candles in a row.
But there are no replacement candles
for those that blow
Where did you go?
The air is thinned by loss.
We're all little candles that
eventually will extinguish.
You left me in the middle of my break
on a week day afternoon.
The startling message did not carry me
fast enough and forward.
The taxi man couldn't drive fast enough
to unslam death's untimely door.
And when I peered into your face,
I saw the slab of your cut cold open shoulders.
There was only large space
were the paddles had tried to relight you,
reignite your spark.
I tricked myself into thinking
you were palely sleeping. You were not.
Another Nineteen on the calendar
to mark. Another sweet light going out into the dark.
A gristle winter's bone of grief to chew.
Another puff of ashes just won't do.
What is it about nineteen?
The shrill pale ghosts fading into
the scene of a shifting smoke of memory.
And me the number nine
left trying to grasp whats no longer being.
Dangling on a precipice.
The long little line of votives
disturbed by my rest-less ragged breathing.
Copyright December 20, 2012 All Rights are Reserved By this Author
Melissa A Howells from her Tilt-a-World
With abiding love and devotion:
/ Tigger RIP May 19 2006 /
/ Ann Eileen Thompson Howells RIP December 19 2006 /
/ Lucky RIP May 19 2006 /