The wick still flickers
in a candlelight vigil
for the flame itself

How dim the star is
reaching above tree branches
like a supplicant

Blinking red tower
casts a lonely semaphore
an owl hoots his own

TASK @ HAND

Oh, the Zen of it:
empty boxes piled high
waiting to be filled

Fireflies at dawn
the stars are finally gone
light comes from within

Release me, Brooklyn
from the skin I’ve grown
but still take me in

An epiphany
can be a slip of paper
hanging from your fridge