Candlestick

 

Sometimes

I step outside myself

just long enough to see

what heaven might be doing through me.

And there I am—

not thunder,

not a lighthouse

splitting the sea—

just a candlestick.

Small.

Quiet.

Steady.

A little pillar of beeswax

melting slow with purpose,

holding a flame

that refuses

to mind its size.

Because somewhere

somebody walking heavy with life

needs a sliver of light

more than they need

a sermon.

Maybe it’s a compliment

placed gentle

in their palm.

Maybe it’s a nod

that says,

I see you.

Maybe it’s a whisper

of hope

when the world feels like

dismissal,

betrayal,

another start

they never asked for.

And there I stand—

not grand,

not glowing for applause—

just burning.

Beeswax softening

with every kind word,

every moment I choose

grace

over bitterness.

A small but mighty light

doing the work

light does.

Because sometimes

the miracle

isn’t the sun.

Sometimes

it’s a single Black woman

holding her flame steady

in a dark room

so somebody else

can find the door.