On the Lantern You Carry Home

Not every lantern drifts away on the wind.  Some wait — soft and low — for you to notice how near they already are. 

You find them tucked inside your pocket of small spare thoughts.  You find them balanced on the line between your sigh and your next breath.  You find them when you turn to leave, only to see that leaving is also returning.

This lantern does not light the forest or the road.  It lights the hallway you cross at midnight when you whisper yes to tomorrow.  It lights the corner of your mind that still holds room for a quieter question.  It lights the hush you set at the center of the world when you say: I am here. I am listening.

So when the dusk gathers every drifting spark, and you wonder what weight you bring back from the hush between the lanterns — remember this one you carry home.

It is not drifting. It is dwelling.  And you dwell inside it, too.