Sometimes January asks us not to rush, but simply to notice what’s already glowing. This poem came from one of those quiet moments — sitting with a candle, letting the day arrive slowly.
A flare of power,
a breath of heat —
and you bloom.
a quiet miracle.
I watch your soft energy rise,
your perfect arc of movement
curling around the wick,
a small sun
learning its sky.
You take your place with grace,
spilling calm across my desk,
offering peace
and the tender promise
of a beginning.
wrapped in ochre light,
the rim of your cloak
touched with deep blue —
a crown of warmth
against the morning’s dark.
and already
you speak of possibility.
until I no longer need your glow,
teaching — gently —
that every hour
holds a seed of wonder.
soft dreams unfurl,
and as your flame leans inward,
its warmth slips quietly
into my chest.
be the light.
is fleeting —
yet radiant, alive,
exhilarating
while it burns.
you don’t vanish —
you become memory,
courage,
the spark that waits
for the next flame.
Thank you for reading — here’s to small beginnings and the light we carry.