The candle is for movement

The sky behind the trees is darker than the room
Where I spend my life.

A subtract
To add to the quiet
White spindles hanging from my sides,
Pressed in my lap.

There are shoes,
The scarf
And a child snoring in the corner.

Three hearts press against the tapping window
Canaries cascade, each a different color, leading to a bell
Stiff and silent.

The chimes are outside.

Purple fingers framed behind
A green and yellow fantasy canvas of trying
And the piles of color, lens capped narcissism
Will be here tomorrow

As will the black double blade waiting on the shelf by the book
That offers no solution.