per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

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for monsteralice, in all her mojo-osity

"She's burning candles..."

I hunt a glimmer through the dark house.
Here: a small thing, ordinary-
Mundane match sparks light
To string in wax, in a glass jar
Wrapped in gaudy iconic plastic-
Mere chemistry and sentiment.
But, too, there is this:
Solid becomes liquid becomes flame
Becomes air; ascent in alchemy,
Light in the darkness, dancing-
And the saint's hand moves in blessing.
Both of these things are true:
The solid, store-bought candle,
The flicker of benediction, of power.
Anchor in this world, wheel in the next,
Tension singing between the two-
Between the picture and the power,
Between cold wax and hot air,
Between the will and the result-
All this, brought, built, bound
Into magic.


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Beautiful, my dear.

::smile:: For the magic and the mojo-osity. Well done!

Nice! Really captures the...well, magic...of it.

I think I'll burn a candle tonight, or tomorrow evening...

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