She sits by the candle
in the otherwise dark,
hands too weak to hold
anything but light,
too old for Mary,
maybe even for Elizabeth,
too old for a lover or a child,
but not too old to dream,
dream of the dark birthing light,
dream of light
piercing the darkness,
making it bleed sweetness,
dream of light seeping into the world,
so the world can finally see itself.
Too old to carry a torch above her head
but not too old to be light, growing,
until she becomes dawn, becomes fire
and offers herself to the world,
trusting strength not visible,
light not hers,
love not merely human,
in ways you can’t yet see
setting the world aflame
by her being
sitting by the candle
in the otherwise dark.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net