Reeds and Wicks

Lingering smoke with waxy cinnamon scents

Greets the early-morning riser descending the staircase.

Exhaustion’s exhaust is clear evidence

Of the neglected candle on the mantle above the fireplace.

With tired gasps, soot marks the glass jar,

As an overworked wick struggles to remain bright.

Reaching deep in its low wax reservoir,

It turns up short on hope, rope, and light.

Once a full jar of strength and assurance,

With tall, flickering fire spreading light without shame,

And infusing the room with sweet endurance,

Now its purpose seems to fade with its diminishing flame. 

Nearby sits a schefflera in a large pot,

Which at one time stood full like the candle’s wick.

As the early-morning riser rushes past to the flame she forgot,

The leaves' journey to the floor proves just as quick.

Its reedy branches appear weak and bruised,

As the verdant life that once filled the room

Now litters it with what was stripped and removed,

Like dried-up memorial flowers at a tomb.

Too much water, or too little?

Too much direct sun, or was it not enough?

Too soon its branches turned brittle.

Too close and a touch causes foliage to slough.

Discouraged, the early-morning riser may be

And miss the potential still to be found.

For the burned-out candle and balding tree,

There is someone who binds what needs to be bound.

Whether battered, weary, weak, or feeling finished,

There’s a message for those at the end of their rope;

A bruised reed He will not break, nor a dim wick be extinguished.

For He loves reeds and wicks, and gives them strength, light, and hope. 

A bruised reed he will not break, and a faintly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice. - Isaiah 42:3

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