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by Kevin T. McEneaney
Tue Sep 20th, 2016

Gusting winds—whiplike—batter bent bushes,

bowing, battered,  bludgeoned; resilient trees

wave as storm rages with ravenous pitch,

while in cottage a lonely candle burns,

comforting four hands at plain deal table.


In willow-breath of a slender candle

with darkness at bay, solitude descends

like a parable of mute wisdom

outside the feverish bustle of wreck.

A white moth flutters above the candle.


Only when bright flame burns inside the heart,

do we see clearly in the obscure dark:

Life then appears to be steady in storm,

wan conundrum, rosy daybreak at dawn.