Shrouds of cloud cloth
descend on the setting sun,
carrying our ghosts
into twilight.
Drapes of night shadows
close behind them.
Shades of fear fly in,
blocking the sight of love.
A candle burns,
its body melts,
smokes the air,
consumes itself.
One light, small as a tear
hot as a flame’s ember,
banishes darkness
in one stroke.
Strike a light for you.
I’ll strike one for me.
Darkness has no power
unless we allow it.
Even the stars get through.
We’ll shine through, too.
© 2001 and 2020 Joanne Sprott