A Communion of Candles

 

No power for eight days,
and now I feel a joyful anticipation,
-something chthonic, something about fire and light-
each night as I sit at the table,
two candles lit.
They give just enough light
so the vast darkness around us
is not spoiled, not violated
with endless, voracious glow.
Just these two halos of light,
wax carefully dripped to hold them,
burning each night to maybe an inch of their height.
My pen feels quieter here, the words flow
as though a pipeline direct to the Universe,
as though the waters of life power through my pen.
I've finished two candles today,
small blue stubs, wax drippings hardened,
but I can't throw them away,
as though those words that flowed from their warm lights
through the ink of my pen
leave traces still sounding in the ethers,
recorded in small lights.

 Annelinde Metzner

October 5, 2024