The candlelight is magic. 
The moon’s earthly daughter sired by the sun
is young and innocent and kind.

The woods creak, some old arthritic trees greeting the wind.
People come and go so quickly
people hit my leaves and run. 

The ground feels like refrigerated marshmallows or raw meat
it gives under my feet so slightly
like it doesn’t want to hurt my knees.

It falls apart beneath me as I try desperately to fix the rocks
replace to soil
reconnect the mating bugs.

The candlelight is magic
slowly sipping wax
the wind passes and the flame folds and springs back up
always on its way to death, 
dancing, dying, 
the epitome of living.