Another night with little sleep
I seek refuge in the ritual
Lean into the light, any light
even if I have to create it for myself.
Pour myself a bowl of silly cereal
Add an extra swig of whole;
give the crispy cookies room to swirl;
run a verdant wood matchstick across striker.
I stare, without seeing,
twin flames wiggling unbothered
on the charcoal wicks, vertical and defiant.
A contrast to the stubby pairs of beeswax tapers
those that long served this table throughout August
and are now unafraid of the end that awaits them
soon, so soon.
"Glim"
I say aloud,
listening as one syllable
echoes through the dining room.
A wee light, a short candle,
a lesser-used but apt descriptor.
My focus drifts near and far.
I slurp my saccharine slurry.
Breathing slowly I speak into being
my impromptu incantation:
"May whimsy percolate through my Tuesday
May goodness prevail
May energy find me in gentle bursts
and may the light keep coming."
