Unlit in the Darkness​

Issue 17

It’s a place of cracked, crimson eggs,
the season of empty trees and
the vertical ordeal of hours in one place.
 
The incense tickles the walls--
calls the Spirit to attend
to this leathered group without scars or marks.
 
Vatic words and chants
beckon the vigilant to further
denial and vagrant intercessions.
 
I stand as well—back aching, my feet
alert to every candle unlit in the darkness,
awaiting the Light in which we see light.
 
All of this bears repetition--
it is all that we have in our quivers;
imploring and resignation in equal parts.
 
Victory comes in fits—shaking recondite moments
there is lots to do in the dark and
we gladly bide our time in this vested room.
 
Celebrate with hosannas, these moments
in Naaman’s river—cleansed in part but
still drying off on its banks.
 
Oh, finally a spark, a still small flame
moving its way through and past the faithful
who soon will have dripping wax on their fingers.

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Wayne Bornholdt is a retired bookseller who lives in West Michigan. Besides taking care of three Golden Retrievers, he plays tennis. He holds degrees in philosophy and religious studies. His poetry has been published in numerous reviews and journals.

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