In the still of the evening it stands,

Proud and unwavering

Showing its light to all in the house.

'Look at me' it cries,

And shows the world it is alight.

But then, in the breeze, it flickers;

It moves in doubt.

The light a little dimmer,

Its heat a little cooler,

No longer so sure, it shrinks and fades.

The wind increases, the struggle grows harder.

It wavers and dims

And sometimes, for a second,

It seems to disappear.

No longer proud, it tries to hide.

It fears that the gale will prove too strong;

That the light will not shine;

That the heat will not burn.

It cries out for help, expecting none,

Preparing to be no more than smoke.

Yet somehow it is protected,

The strongest wind cannot put it out.

A hand is around it, nursing it -

Unseen, yet always present.

The flame will never die.