The Wind and the Candle
The wind has prowled around this house all night,
trying the doors and windows one by one,
seeking a point of entry left unbarred,
testing each latch with fumbling gloves of cold;
an ill guest, blustering and petulant,
unwelcome yet insistent, pressing claims
importunately, dunning all night long.
The branches shuffle like accomplices,
huddled in cloaks of shadow, covertly,
to cover its advances, whispering
conspiracies by lampposts’ orange shade.
Inside, we light one night light under glass;
Diana says ‘hello candle’, waving hi,
greeting the spirit in the little flame,
born when the wick is lit in its low glow
to be the iris of the watchful night
behind the starry glass in the still air.