"Sparked"

(Candle ignited October 9, 2009).

The wind howls, whipping through the trees,
Thrashing leaves and scrawled branches pound,
As I falter in the darkness of the wood.
My thin coat is soaked and shredded.
Alone, cold, and vulnerable, I cower.

Dizzying torrents fill my mind,
Floods of doubt and terrors pummel.
'Is that a building up ahead?'
Leaping, a gnarled tree root catches my foot,
I flounder and fall in the mud.

Dazed I struggle to regain my focus,
While the rain continually pelts my face.
The ache in the pit of my stomach,
Drenched deeply to the very core,
I cry out in pain.

I cannot move any farther.
Muscles aching, worries overwhelming,
The throbbing is too much to bear.
A soft word I hear, yet I see no one,
As though a faint whisper floated on the wind.

Breathing deeply, I struggle forward,
Crawling toward the wooden structure
On my hands and knees on the forest floor.
One hand after the other I push on,
'Til I finally reach the rugged cedar planks.

Cold and shivering, I crouch,
Seeking warmth, shelter from the storm.
My vision blurred, I wipe the glass,
Desperate for hope, a ray of light,
On the other side of the window.

A tiny flame flickers in the frame.
Raindrops enshroud the surface.
Squinting I peer into the foggy pane.
Earnestly I pull on the metal ledge.
It does not budge.

Too dark to see, I stumble around the perimeter,
Tripping over stones and fallen branches,
Water pouring over my head,
My hands probing up and down the walls,
Fingers groping, searching for a knob.

At last I find the edge of the door,
As a cloaked and aged man appears before me,
Extends his hand, beckoning me to enter.
He pulls the door open, warmth sweeps over me,
Yet trembling, I feel my legs giving way.

Blinking, I slowly open my eyes, peering up.
Hazy at first, gradually my vision grows clearer.
His tender, shining eyes greet mine.
Deeply I breathe in the glowing air,
As he gently lifts me to my feet once more.

Surveying the room, I see not only a single flame,
But little lights scattered among the pews,
Each candle held by a weary traveler of varying ages;
Some are soggy and still dripping,
Others radiant and almost completely dry.

In his hand he holds my candle.
I had carried it in my pocket, merely frozen wax.
Ashamed, I bow my head before him,
And in his presence, it softens and ignites,
Sparked by the beatific twinkling of his eye.