Twisted candles, cinnamon toast
Books with yellow spine
My name inside
(I’d written there)
When I was young and the world was mine.
Beneath the pine, on needles there
Each afternoon, I’d hide
The mysteries of a simpler life
Would ebb and flow
In a narrative tide.
As shadows fell across the page
A ribbon held my place
Carried home on storied wings
Dreams of candle wax
And cinnamon on my face.