I gravitate towards poetry because for me, it’s often the translation of a world I rarely understand into words that I can understand. Short stories, novels, and even movies can inspire and touch me, or leave me wanting to add my mark in the world. Poetry, however, has the opposite effect: it stills me. It makes me want to listen and experience life through someone else’s eyes and see the things that I miss on my own because I’m too blind or otherwise preoccupied.

The scent of wax permeates the air,
hangs briefly over the drill field at dusk,
before the wind whisks it away.
We should be here to enjoy
the cherry blossoms, as we were last spring.
This candle scent stings, but it’s warm,
almost comforting, as one flame lights another.

Tonight, personal space dwindles to nothing;
our bodies cleave together without jostling.
There is solace in a neighbor, whether a friend
or a stranger, standing beside us.

We sway as we sing. Only a mouthful
of bitter words catch wing; it’s not a night for rage.
Tonight, we keen, pay homage to our fallen,
keep our candles burning to guide their way.
It is through their ascension we find
our hope returns and our grief abates.

I pocket my candle stub. It is a comfort
on my long walk home.