wishful thinking

Darkness outside the windows states
The sun has set.

Yet we sit inside
With lights on.

And, Mother, you create even more
By setting ablaze the candles.

They stick up out of the rhubarb pie--
My birthday request.

No, I did not request one more candle
For the annual addition requires none of my persistance.

It's the rhubarb I've desired--
This pie.

Now these candles call my attention.
They await my extinguishing breath.

I assume everyone singing to me wonders what sort of wish creation
Occurs inside my head.

I feel confusion, not a light wishful-making feeling.
I know not for what to wish.

There are too many things.
Too many people.
Too many situations.
Too many

And I'm one.
I'm one with one more year
Behind me.
Ahead of me?

Smoke.