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the boisterous air fizzles and flits
around the room like the freshly
freed bubbles of a young champagne.

while the others keep climbing
the mountain with a happy, drunken gait---
i follow along---

all too aware that i have, again,
stepped on that plateau.

i have, again, faced the choice
of making my summit,

or stopping here and resting---
while they reach the top

and kiss the stars.

:::

every night for several years,

i lit a candle before i sat quietly

to find my stillness.

it became my ritual.

it became my symbol.

this candle reflected my soul---

the eternal flame of being.

---or so i thought.

on one such night,

sitting in my stillness,

i heard a voice ask me,

"where is the light?"

it repeatedly and patiently asked me,

"where is the light?"

until i began to ask myself.

~

every night,

i sit quietly to find my stillness,

but i have ceased to light the candle.

:::

there are some who drink

from the bucket.

but with you...

i drank from the well.

:::

foolishly i took notice of the impatient wind.

sheepishly i smelled the thin, dry air.

treppidly i turned hot under the seething sun---

listlessly waiting for a fervent storm

and a daring strike of lightning to stoke

an uncontrollable forest fire.

carelessly i ignored the timber.

it was already damp.