Two candles in the dark

Burn slowly with grace;

The lights seem to touch

And form a heavenly face.

The light is the beauty

Of the lives that once were;

The sticks are the figures

Of him and of her.

And the wax dripping down

Is a tear we all cry,

And if the wax keeps melting

The figures will die.

The wicks are the souls

Of the figures that stand,

And the dish down below

Is a sign of God's hand.

The candles stand still

And forever they'll stay,

Burning the light

Because that's the best way.



This poem is dedicated to my grandparents. My grandfather died in 1989 two days after Christmas and my grandmother died in 1980 five days before Christmas.