Candles That Don’t Beg

Candles That Don’t Beg

I used to strike a match for proof, to bargain with the night,

to hold a trembling halo up and call it borrowed light.

But now I set the wicks to work and let their silence speak—

Candles that don’t beg the dark, just stand there, warm and meek.

---

They do not plead with every draft or court the window’s mood;

They burn the way a promise burns when kept without being wooed.

A steady flame is not a shout, nor is it thin applause—

It’s wax that learns a patient curve and heat that knows its cause.

---

The world will rattle locks and glass; the weather loves a dare.

My little altars answer back by simply being there.

No slogans carved in melted gold, no prayers to make me strong—

just inch by inch of honest fire that chooses to belong.

---

I trim the wick to keep it true; the smoke writes one small line,

a brief and vanishing amen that smells of orange and pine.

The room unclenches by degrees; the shadows learn to stay,

not bullied by a glaring sun, but warmed in ordinary gray.

---

So come, and set your heavy down; we’ll share this thrift of glow—

two cups, a table cleared of storms, a softness made to grow.

If darkness asks us who we are, we’ll answer with a tread

that doesn’t kick the night awake—just light that won’t beg.

---

And should the wind insist on proof, and thunder shake the sill,

The wax will lean, the wick will bow—and still, and still, and still.