Coming to light

There is that little lick of fire
Tonguing its orange way
Through the night's
Impenetrable weave.

What cannot be punctured
Can still be burned away.
That little wick,
On a stub of candle:
The small, melting pool
Of cold tallow
Meeting the smallest
Glow of flame.

So I sit in this dark house
Watching this coming to light,
The slow sizzle of shadow
Giving way to to its bright twin.

The pall of loneliness
Will be made glad
And vivid with color.

The stark silence will be
Festooned with festive voices
Like Advent's somber purple
Being put away
As the tree and its baubles
Come out of storage
Into the light

And the empty spaces
Are re-filled with glad faces.

But here, in the in-between,
The crack I fall through
Is just as welcome
As where I will be
When my descent ends
And I rise once again
On warm currents of air.

The chill of my skin
Will be warmed,
My wistfulness
Will be banished
Until the next melancholia.

So I wait like a wide-eyed child
Eager for Christmas morning
But not yet too excited as
To let go the darkling blanket
Of the solo poem
Coming to light.

Hold off a bit.
My sadness
Is sublime, too.