The Lighting of Candles

The candlesticks need candles.
The Romanov gold needs the flicker of flames
to move from museum piece to article of faith.

This is your life. A movement of wind, inspiration,
God-breathed, from darkness to light,
a groundhog day journey, waking each morning

to read the weather, to push past the night
that lingers in your head a bit too long each day.
So each morning, fighting yourself,

you reach for the candles, stockpiled each day,
hoarded. Light in reserve. A promise of movement
from museum piece to life. If only for a day.

About this poem.

My life is good. But that does not mean the depression I used to write about so often is gone. It is an everyday thing, better managed right now than most days. It’s become a ritual after all these years, not unlike the start of church services each Sunday, and the lighting of the candles. As if the depression sees me start my rituals of self-esteem and self-care and says, some days, “The Hell with It.”

The picture is from the Romanov Communion set, taken at the Russian Icon Museum in Clinton, Mass.

For those not steeped in American Movie culture, “Groundhog Day” is a Bill Murry movie where he relives the same day, over and over again, until he doesn’t.

Sipping coffee and smiling.

Tom