I lit a candle beside my window,
Believing it to be aromatic;
I wanted milk-honey stirred with willow,
Or whatever scent these days calms the erratic.
Glumly I report the candle scentless,
Less scented than air by expectation,
My sniff swindled as by an unfinished
Sentence, denied outright its ticketed ration.
Yet I left the traitorous wax ablaze,
Framed in the window like an earnest prayer;
I suppose it seemed improper to raze
A wish for the dying in olfactory care.