Poetry and poësie

The renewable hour

It is not a Doric pillar
it is a white candle,
grooved from top to bottom.

It has a wick
which, when lit,
spreads adequate light to read by.

It has no digital components,
it has no moving parts,
except the flame when it sways its hips
in the lazy currents of the room.

It has burned down to a hot translucent  puddle
in the holder
many times
since I listened at night
in bed
in the giant darkness
to the desolate call
of a jackal.

Time and again it burned down,
but it is always new
with a soft white wick
unlit.