deconstruct the anger,

fear, sorrow.  tame

the creature within.

stroke its soft belly.

now you’re happy, too.

The purple beads at the wedding were lassoed around her neck.  They were gifts.  To each guest, she gave one.  It was her job.  The bride said, “tradition.”  Her husband looked on, wide-eyed.  Nobody knew his favorite color was blue.  Red was pouring in from everywhere, the silks and the flowers that draped the canopied hall they walked down, husband and wife.  All minds feasted on color, even as they ate “real food,” chicory, lentils and rice.  Everything was an offer, anything you could touch.  Everybody like jewels in God’s crown.

A man told me, “We are like candles.”  He held a tall orange one and said, “We are just the wick, a portion. We burn through the wax, down to ember.”

Candles have a memory.  The first burn determines all the rest.  It should fill the round edge with a pool of wax.  Sit with the full light, strong as it descends.