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by Monica Ellen Smith
And I light the candle.
Its spicy russet fragrance saturates
even the most distant space of this old farmhouse,
permeating the autumn night
with delicious warmth as I breathe in.
And I close my eyes.
A wave of misty air floats in on a stream of moonlight
and swells to a crest at the base of my spine.
And I open my eyes.
The candle flickers, an artist creating fanciful designs,
transforming the wall into a canvas,
the canvas into life.
The dog twitches her ears, whines and lifts her head,
ready to protect me from the late-night intruder,
but quickly returns to sleep when I reassure her.
I look around.
I look around thinking
this is poetry. Life is poetry.
What words could I possibly write to supersede this beauty?