Out, Out
       

A spiral of smoke ascends
from where the guttering wick still glows,
a filmy helix that bends
through slow degrees to meet
itself but forever fails to close
the loop of fading heat,

Putting out his hand
to snuff the last persistent spark
he sees a once-black strand
of hair turned smoky white
that rises from his wrist, an arc
against the dimming light.

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Copyright © 2012 Richard Wakefield All rights reserved
from A Vertical Mile
Able Muse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission