the candlemaker

by brice maiurro

For Danny Mazur

There is a candlemaker,
tucked away in the story of a room,
he takes the remnants of what was,
and moves it into form,
through the work of holding,
he gifts it into the grace of maybe,
he carves it into the shape of home.

And when the wind blows in,
perhaps it laughs at what he’s made,
a dry wick as still as an unfulfilled promise,
an idea of something that you cannot prove exists. 

But out in the wild world,
a spark is born in the dry night,
unseen, unknown, unspoken,
it wanders along the sides of highways,
holding its truth out to the wind,
hoping to hitch a ride to anywhere. 

The spark moves across plains,
mountains, deserts, and dust storms,
in rainstorms hiding beneath the trees
until one day it arrives
at the flick of someone’s soft thumb,
wrapping its maybe against the wick of the candle
and birthing its maybe into a flame. And fire,
              well,
fire can go almost wherever it wants,
when a someone with a dream
of what cannot be seen,
patiently holds onto the flicker
in the core of his open eyes.