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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Honorable Mention Opening Candlewick Patricia Cresswell she speaks with gentleness to the walls leaves her memories and hopes in words between the layers of fresh spring paint she finds her mother and grandmother’s there rising up before, whispering their lives as the brush passes in loving ritual strokes across scrubbed pine planks intricately, through each other, are woven all the years of summer days for even nights are days stretched out across the fabric of remembrance small goodnight prayers fill the cracks and spells recited around midnight fires mix smokily into the faded shades tales of fish this big, hide amongst the shelves beside tattered, love worn fairy tales soft kisses of first love, a baby’s hungry cry ephemeral iron that bind this aged dwelling into forever buckets of colour empty blues, greens, gold and white dried by gusted winds, brief visitors, who detour toward the lake they carry potions of laughter, droplets of tears that sift between the evergreens and sink into the rocks and soil she washes the brushes sets them out on the porch to dry immersed in sounds forever return echoes of all the children who ran, bare brown bodies slipping free of convention while grown ups slept oblivious forever, come back the sighs as eyes peer to catch the last glimpse life closing in around the magic as a setting for some precious jewel she tends to its needs and the cottage abides in the sun drenched, cedar scented whisps of joy between each year Candlewick is a living thing of the heart carved out of that enduring blend of childhood and memories. it will live, always.
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