A Candle Burns On The Mantel Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

A candle burns on the mantel in red glass.
It flickers like red-hot winter coals.
It'll be autumn soon... With searing casseroles.
It'll be winter with frozen toes, alas.

But here, the candle flickers are the last.
The embers of summer are my fiftieth, all told.
I wonder how many more will be surpassed.
Or amass before any more springs; withhold.

Spring is a passage of rites that we've survived.
"I'll enjoy this night with a Malbec wine.'
Sure, I curl up on my toes, yet I feel revived.
Yet I will lie on my back. Writing supine.

I'll look out the window to see the stars.
I'll climb into bed with my lover's arms.
And dream of a candle, a fire in our hearts.
Devoid of seasons or any of these qualms.

~or~
Devoid of any dark foreboding qualms.