She Lights the Candle She lights the candle again. She folds the blanket down and smiles and strips. We forget what we ate for breakfast, what we said ten minutes ago. Love has its own continuum. Tonight's moon recalls last night's moon fresh to our minds, fresher than our last breath. We love remembering when we love, the last time, or the one before, how the blankets felt, or the way candle-lit skin shone like phosphor. Likewise, each winter rhymes with the mind of winters before. So our thoughts chase the seasons 'round. There are four of each of us, each thinking a different wheel, echoing another weather. And if, as we touch, a spray of snowflakes ticks and liquefies on the pane behind the candle, then we two meet at the meshing of two wheels. So each sensation half-rhymes with other loves, half-rhymes with other snows and candles, and each slight pressure comes unstuck, drifting among other caresses, and all like moments flood this moment: pushing us toward future pleasure. © Dale R. Hobson. All rights reserved.