Tonight we open a familiar tin boxÂ
where candles rest, patient as those we’ve lost—
eight lengths of cupboard-cool wax
and a ninth who eagerly volunteersÂ
to get things started.Â
I ignite a match and think of our ancestors
as though they were just upstairsÂ
deciding which TV station to watch,Â
wondering if the draft under the door
means anything,Â
and wait for the small flame
to make up its mind–Â
like a shy guest at a doorwayÂ
before deciding the partyÂ
might be worth entering after all.Â
