Beeswax Candle

Indian Summer 
melted chaos of death
and partings into order, the eventide of life.

One leaf fell across my path:
it was as a first note in a symphony of fire.
I was impressionable.
The trees melded with the cool
into an auburn unlike
the smouldering pit burnings of leaves,
the musty chaos and cries of children,
the soft beeswax candle melting upstairs.

It was eventide, dark was coming swiftly.
No longer afraid of my nightmares
as mistress of the manor—
through the upstairs window,
I let down my hair from its braid
and the lady’s maid combed
my tresses, laid out my dresses,
polished my shoes, and lit the hearth.

Emily Isaacson

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