I vaguely recall this delicate memory
as a frost in the December candlelight,
and the way it dances on the cedar walls
is a play performed by shivering gremlins.

Their echoing voices nothing more than
a high-pitched ringing in my ear drum,
and the sound of sticky mouths opening.

They pause to hear me, but to them I am
the flame and smoke of a melted icicle.
I appear as water vines twisting on tile
paths that stretch nearly to the walls.

07/07/2012

Author's Note: Written on the spot.

Posted on 07/08/2012
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