it sat solid in the warmer
on the back of the stove
She put the tealight under it,
lit the small wick
A pool of dark hot wax
bubbled up, ooze in a puddle
in three-dimension
atop the surface of the green solid
Slowly the house filled with
the smell of pine,
exuding the memory of the woods
throughout
wonder of physics,
of the order of things
when something solid
becomes a gas
November 29, 2006 10:47
All
of my poems are copyrighted by Raymond A. Foss, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004,
2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014. All rights
reserved. Contact me at Ray
Foss for usage. See all 30,700+ of my poems at www.raymondafoss.blogspot.com
Poetry Where You Live.
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