..
“Must I hold a candle to my shames?” – The Merchant of Venice
…
These stars are Roman
candles to my scars, splitting
this sky wide open with lust
-er. My crippled hands are
crocuses, poking up through
snow, shadowed,
infinite in prayer. There’s a
flicker here, you see. Of
silver-slivered cloud, of
tumbled rain, of sleepy ebony
sky to cover my un
-quiet skin in down
blanket. Of hope. Of
healing. Of wings, even
in the face of flame,
and all this melting
wax.
..
Quickly prompted.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
I’m glad you have so many scars (featured in your poems of late.)
This is a great prayer poem – of giving yourself up to a higher power.
“My crippled hands are
crocuses” I love that. I think I started a poem like that once — “My hands are crocuses.”
“sleepy ebony” “sleepy bone” … Love both.
Melting wax and a blanket of hope — sounds like bliss to me.
I wrote one way back about hands as crocuses, too. I remembered it as I was writing this one, but then couldn’t find it. I bet the first time I wrote that image, I had absorbed it from you. 😉 That happens, quite a bit. You are making me a better writer. What’s the saying? “Artists borrow; geniuses steal?”
Oh my gosh, you’re way too good at this.