One Flame in the Dark

In the darkened field, there is one light.

Not the stars —

they scatter, indifferent,

cold fire flung too far away.

Not the moon —

it wanes,

it hides behind weather,

it does not stay.

But the lantern —

a modest flame,

cupped by thin glass,

cradled in metal ribs,

patient in its solitude.

I walk toward it.

Each step unsteadies the night,

the grass breathing against my knees,

the air stitched with whispers of things unseen.

Still, the lantern does not waver.

What it holds is not fire alone.

It holds the hush of waiting,

the memory of hands that once set the wick,

the breath of someone long gone

but not forgotten.

Its glow is not bright enough to banish shadow,

yet enough to mark the path.

A single promise of direction,

not safety,

not certainty —

only a pulse of light

insisting on itself.

I could lift it,

but I do not.

I leave it standing in the dark,

its glow steady as a heartbeat,

its silence louder than my steps.

Some lanterns are not meant to be carried.

They are meant to stay,

to keep vigil,

to remind the wandering

that there is always,

always,

at least one light

that does not leave.