Each time we light the lights
and lean back on the couch,
we wonder
which will be the last one lit,
which will be the first to go.
It holds us spellbound
gazing into flicks of yellow light,
as shadows dance on walls.
And all the while
advancing theories why this should be so,
as if some reason could be found.
Perhaps there is a draft,
but no,
the smoke is rising up
just like a thread that stretches tight
to touch the ceiling’s crown.
Perhaps the heat from one beside
promotes a melting all the more,
but look,
that one now leads the rest
and yet it stands alone.
And each and every night,
again advance hypotheses to know,
but each night it is the same:
the candles burn,
no pattern in the end,
just like before.
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Excellent description of burning candles. You can close your eyes and imagine the flicker of the flame dancing.
Thank You.
I remember as a kid betting to myself which would be the last one lit. I was almost always wrong.