Raymond A. Foss Poems

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The tart had been melted before
it sat solid in the warmer
on the back of the stove
She put the tealight under it,
lit the small wick
A pool of dark hot wax
bubbled up, ooze in a puddle
in three-dimension
atop the surface of the green solid
Slowly the house filled with
the smell of pine,
exuding the memory of the woods
throughout
wonder of physics,
of the order of things
when something solid
becomes a gas

November 29, 2006 10:47

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