A ring embedded in candle wax,
a bouncing child made of broken glass,
the girl who holds back and her man
holding nothing, time passing
into timeless music, and silence.
Someone is feeling somebody’s eyes
across the room from nearly waist high,
watching a mother watching her child,
“It’s hope son, I’ve been feeling it too,”
and the flames begin to melt the ice.
By Heidi Turner