Three Candles

Grace is the wind,
when the hand of a tenacious spirit
moves a fallen leaf
through the colors of the season.

Still sounds of a dimly lit house,
a cross town setting,
at the foot of a railroad junction.

In the eyes of a little boy,
who stands at the front door, lost in wonder
the Western Maryland lives on churning up the track.

When he faced the conjured demon,
I was busy,
only five hours into a ten hour day,
miles away.
He stood in the shadow of death
as it surrounded him.

The fire grew and engulfed the room.
Around him, the heat was intense.
Pictures on the wall began to melt.

In the distance,
between two pillar candles,
the words of the King James were left lying.

A sword,
to sheer the billows of smoke,
kept the path open.

A comforting hand held him tightly
and looked to see the wonder of innocence;
in the eyes of my son.

Grace granted his freedom.

Every tomorrow that yearns to be seen
every yesterday that sleeps
in the bosom of the spirit
yielded by the Grace of the Son.

I am a man
who embraces his son.
He sits on my lap
in this dimly lit cross town home.
Where the Western Maryland churns
up the track.

Again, this little boy sees fire
in front of him.
With the wind
Grace granted,
he blows out the candles
on his birthday cake.

This is what happened to my three year old on September 18th of this year. Tim