Thumbprints

 

I make blue thumbprints

In a warm wax-

As the candles drift to sleep.

 

There isn’t much to salvage here;

There isn’t much to keep.

 

Empty glasses have fallen over-

And knives have gone astray.

 

There isn’t much to argue here;

There isn’t much to say.

 

Broken plates are everywhere

And napkins are askew.

 

There isn’t much to gather here;

There isn’t much to do.

 

Your empty chair is upside down-

And a stranger calls your name.

 

There isn’t much to hope for now-

Though I love you just the same.

 

(C) Copyright 2006. Anastasia Clark. All rights reserved.