I kiss the tender sun
each dusk,
and nestle it in the
red rust dirt.

It sinks at a hazy pace
until it unveils your day--
my whispers and prayers
quietly lingering in its beams.

The rippling, colored light
will find you.
Will lift you.
Your sleep-laden lashes.

One day, I'll no longer need
this fiery messenger to whisper
"Good Morning."

Let the old slip through these fingers.
My heart beats still!
I’m falling, but now--
I build wings.
I’m falling, but now—
it is a good thing.

A flickering candle.
A blinking observer of the blurred,
thrumming life that surrounds it.

Silken-haired girls and kittens gambol
on the thread-bare rug;
leaving brightly colored Trouble pieces in their wake.

It's countenance reads "Winter",
like a scent could ever capture
the long, arduous Minnesota cold.

A continuous clatter of feet,
chorused voices in debate,
a deserted pie crust on a cracked plate
and dog fur fiercely claiming the beloved sofa.

A flickering candle watches
as wisdom swirls in scotch glasses,
and serpentine coils of cigar smoke.

Trusting smiles and the adoration of a father
lighting the faces of sons--

           All witnessed by a flickering candle.