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(Poem by Wendy Howe ) A year and its lingering days have spoken in fire. My house feels the lilt of candles burning lime blossom and teak. Winter comes as a quiet host offering shorter days but longer nights that stretch and shadow the wall with a woman holding her daughter. To the warmest corner, I take my child, the southeast where direction conjures old tales of place and time. Her Slavic grandmother understood the ways of fire; the dire need and the daydreamer's gaze. She lit smudge pots that lined the orchard in vigilant gold. Plants kept from freezing and she saw how stars could blaze and beckon between clouds darkly layered like the logs on her kitchen hearth. When rain or snow confined her to indoor afternoons, she threw rice or dried beans into the flames. Her eyes could read the melody of embers; and slowly she learned the song of her future life. Perhaps then, she heard me singing to an infant girl, sensed the heat of a mother's breath mingling with candles, the skin of one generation glistening on the next, and the glow off her knowledge passed on in this soft pause The Earth christens Twilight. To know more about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) |
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