Charred Candlewick

Night’s darkness enveloped the old house
where only a candle stick served as illumination.
Slowly,
wax drips like teardrops.

As if the length of paraffin has
a feeling of its own, like it could breathe as how we do.
Darkness,
falls as the wind blows.

Tomorrow, as the sun starts yawning,
the wick will wait for the tiny flicker that will revive.
Sputter,
life springs back anew.

-dyan kay ben-