The crown of candles sits on the table by the door. I see it every time that I come into the house.
On Bridey's Eve, it graced a sacred head. The tall white candles bathed her in warm light, the leaves of its wreath crisply green against the white of her veil.
That was thirteen nights gone. Now the brittle leaves crumble as I unwrap the gold ribbon that holds them to the crown. The ribbon goes back onto its spool; the leaves I will strew in the snowy garden, to nourish another harvest.
The candles, half-burned, go into the chandelier in the temple, where they will light our next rite.
The crown, denuded, returns to its peg in temple storage, to await the coming of another February.
More than 300 years ago, Robert Herrick wrote in his poem "Candlemas Eve":
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Beautiful, Steven, as always. Linking on FB.