An arc lamp hangs from a pole

overlooking my grandfather’s house.

The light has always shone brightly

for as long as

I can remember.

.

In spring,

it would be the only light shining

through a fresh thunderstorm.

Down on the porch,

the rain seemed miles away.

.

Once summer mornings broke,

The light faded and shut off.

It needed the night to shine as though

it were a star.

.

In autumn’s waning daylight,

that beacon grew again in power,

cutting through the evening leaves,

shining through new chimney smoke.

Slowly, like fall itself,

the arc dimmed, it’s light lessened,

leaving the driveway dark.

.

December will be without light.

The dim core still glows,

though there is no one

to shine upon.

Now, it is dead.