Candlelight

The following poem was written a long time ago in honor of a then-coworker who was moving on to another job, and I'd meant to post it here before. This past week, though, I lost a dear friend--a woman with a huge heart who cared about damn near everyone except, unfortunately, herself. The words below seem appropriate to her as well.

At the wood that used to be
Candlelight's desk, there is
a moment just before sunset
when the space west lets go
its reserve, lets clouds become
live things sore with volcanic
attention and nerve. Eyes take
the chance, glance up, know
what causes warmth to swoop
low over girder rust and clumps
of dark gnarl nowhere near
turquoise sleeves pressed
to enormous panes tinted
for keeping out. The moment
drifts through movement of
sneakers over worn office carpet,
fumes, dry weeds in drier sidewalks
without giving notice or regret
for eyes becoming cautious like
always, the air going dark like
always--boxed memories of
Candlelight gone, not forgotten.