Warm, but cold, the room
looks blue, old carpeting
tan, dark windows shutting
their eyes
on the shortest day
of the year. I am here;
home is where you are,
which is not in this chill
graying room with me.
Candles, I hear, bring
a spark of life to a room
such as this. When my match
kisses their vulnerable white
wicks and flares, it's clear
they are right. I light some more,
then watch their dancing flames
whipping the darkness back
into the small corners
of this room.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
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