watch over the drive
from my house to the city,
sometimes with their warm yellow glow,
sometimes bathed in a pure bright white.
Regardless of their tone, their texture,
their message is same:
when first one,
then another – at random intervals –
snuff out before dawn dusts the east
fade in before dusk descends upon the western sky
or – this week – to be sure I am paying attention
or that I haven’t given it up to coincidence,
when they flicker, flutter,
flare, and frenetically
flash and fade
like candles on your birthday cake
before returning to their
it’s then I know –
have always known –
that this is the way
you show me
that you are here,
The streetlights watch over me
warm and pure.
knowing that before long,
another daily drive to the city,
will witness your streetlight serenade,
let’s blow out your candles together.
Happy Birthday, Dad!