Candles
Where I live,
just a few blocks from the river
and a stone's throw from the post office,
there are many candles scattered about,
on tables and shelves, in drawers and bags,
tall ones that are not supposed to drip, but do,
thick, long-lasting ones that I bought on sale
whose wicks break off
or double back into the wax,
and then, of course,
there are the tea lights, many to the bag,
those small circular blasts of radiance.
All of the above and more are in my home
for what, it seems, will likely be the final chapter of my life,
the golden years, the time
when the end is near or soon to be,
Amen.
I have been noticing,
these slow, leaf-changing days of autumn,
that I too rarely light the candles in my home,
assuming they are, somehow, for special occasions,
a holiday, perhaps,
or the times I invite my friends for dinner,
wine being poured,
flowers arranged,
Pachebel or Bill Evans taking us deeper
into the place where nothing needs to be said.
It makes no sense,
no sense at all,
me waiting for some other time,
God looking through my dark eyes
and singing "Let there be light."
This is the moment!
This is my Sabbath!
This is the day of celebration!
All my guests are here, disguised as empty space,
as I reach for the book of matches on the shelf
and read the book of life
in the flickering flame.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:36 AM | Comments (0)
