Bill Cavanaugh, Becketwood Member
The stout yule candle in late December
Does not rush to its extinction.
It spins its wax in threads of smoke
Rising as the cold night air
Wheezes through the sash.
The flickering light at length will slip,
Consumed in the source that nourished it,
And the black wick will bend,
And curl in the cooling wax.
Beautiful! Love the images, especially the ‘night air wheezing through the sash’.
Great — perfect image to accompany this poem.
loved it, especially….”consumed in the source that nourished it”
Alleluia! Thou everlasting Light!