Birthday Candle       in wax, an oval       thick with wick, plucked from       a perforated       supermarket shelf       intended as the       plumper half of a       stout duo; a ring       to hinge two decades       brought home, in playful       irony, alone;       kept with blue icing       in a slender tube       we’d scribble joy; we’d       kiss the wax with flame.       my wish for you was       nothing less than life.       and now I see the       folly of my wish;       too fierce, too bold; too       common everywhere       we are home alone.       your present waits. it       sculpts the void; it wails       of hope unkindled                   Shelley Costa                         posted for June ’04