The Candle

When morning comes again with softer light,
I find thee still within these careful lines,
As candles guttered through the hollow night
Persist in smoke long after flame resigns.

The rose returns — it always does — and yet
The petals hold a heaviness today,
As though the bloom remembered to forget
That beauty was a thing that chose to stay.

Still I compose these words as I have learned,
Still tender in their architecture, still
Arranged as if arrangement could be earned —
as if the form itself could cure the ill.

Forgive the lowercase. It slipped. Doesn’t matter.
The vow holds even as the vessels shatter.