Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.
Vaclav Havel
There is a moment right before
the flame flicks out, when the charred wick
pokes though its flush of blue plasma–
where instead of a fading flame,
I see the remains of a dying star,
one that will soon engulf its planets,
transform them into splinters of wax
and send them forth in sputters.
I see, on those little cinders,
the smallest of men, debating dogma,
berating their fellow orb dwellers, right till the end.
And then the flame is gone.
I look to the next candle in line,
still alive with yellow glow and hope
that something will again make sense.
*This poem was previously published in Minyan Magazine and is republished with permission.