Moths swerve to candles as the weight
Of light pulls them in orbit about a flame.
I look north from the Sacramento Airport
To the oak trees bunched on Elverta Road
Where my parents’ home once gleamed
Like a candle of love wrought wax drawing
Out my childhood of old December nights.
Now that house is gone, moved to a place
Where the light does not penetrate as far.
Now it is a December morning rushing me
Back to Hawai‘i, where my wife and children
Glow with warmth. That glow draws me home
As a parent. If light has no mass, how can lights
Past and present weigh so much within my chest?
What does a moth do between two candles?
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