by Glen Martin Fitch
Some at attention,
standing on display,
anticipate that one important night.
In drawers the others
let their scent of
bay, vanilla, citrus
mingle out of sight
of lipstick red or
holly,
votive white.
They long to warm,
to move,
illuminate,
to be consumed,
to flare up,
flashing bright,
to be enjoyed
a simple, ancient fate.
The tallow in me
longs to radiate.
I want that sudden flash,
to feel aflame.
I'm burnt.
I'm gutted out.
My wick awaits
the glance,
the touch,
the calling of my name.
If I'm a stub,
left lonely, lost, confused,
Ignite me.
Bliss arrives
from being used.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011