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If a handmade candle could talk...

The Candlemaker's Flame

Andrew_sunset_imageby Andrew McDiarmid01 May 2014

Perhaps I am not the model candle,
Smooth flame burning brightly and dependably
at the window, beckoning. I am probably not fit
For the vastness of a cathedral or even the dining room
Of some duchess or lord of a manor. I tend to flicker,
And though some may like that it can bother the eyes
And be seen as amateur, or pretentious, or the mark
Of a rebellious spirit. My body is thin and noble
not from factory mold but from humble hands. I have no lines
To tell the passage of time but I am tenacious, known to stay
Until the end. I bear bright light like the rest of them,
and I get excited when he comes over to me,
Brows furrowed, eyes blazing like a furnace.
He pours and shapes, the smell of beeswax
Swirling around cinnamon, orange, pine, ginger, rose,
Vanilla, and fresh cotton. Here, I am the only one that is lit,
Night fills the air around us. He doesn't mind my flickers,
Bursts of illumination for steady hands.
This is how I began, and I get to watch it again
And again, small armies, firm and dry, ready to be dispatched
Into darkness.