The Lantern

At first,

it is only a dot

a small insistence of gold

in a wide wash of night.

The road between us

hums with the hush of unseen things,

stones whispering underfoot,

air heavy with what I have not said.

The lantern waits.

It has waited for years,

for the hour when silence grows too large

to live in.

I walk.

Every step draws a sound from the dark

a leaf sighing, a branch clinking frost,

the faint metallic heart

of my own breath against my coat.

The light wavers,

and for a moment I fear it will go out,

that hope is only what distance does

to fire.

But it steadies.

It burns with a knowing quiet,

as if it has seen this walk before

my hesitation,

my hands too afraid to reach,

my longing to be less shadow

and more flame.

When I come close enough

to see the glass,

I see the world turned small inside it

a miniature of all that waits beyond fear.

The wick trembles,

bright as forgiveness,

as if the night itself has exhaled

to keep it alive.

I do not touch it.

I only stand there,

face warmed, eyes lit,

until I can no longer tell

whether the light is within the glass

or within me.