Lighthouse

A flicker,

then flame—

Not fire,

but memory.

I was a boy once,

carving ships from driftwood

and sending them into waves

I could not name.

A whisper,

then roar—

Not thunder,

but a father’s silence.

The sea doesn’t rage,

it remembers

how many have knelt before it

and begged

to be seen.

My hands are lanterns now,

shaking in the wind,

but still I hold them high

for ships

that may never come.

A shimmer,

then hush—

Not peace,

but surrender.