I mend a lantern where the river bends,
not with another sun, but patient wire.
The glass has kept the shape of hands;
a soot remembers honest fire.

Along the bank, the reeds repeat their warning:
no current carries everything at once.
A boat may reach the landing before morning
and leave its name among the trunks.

I lay the scattered pieces on a blanket,
each reflection given room to rest.
The handle fits. The chimney leans a fraction.
One crooked seam admits the evening best.

There is a kind of darkness made of waiting,
and one that grows from calling darkness light.
I choose the first, its patience,
its open place beside the work tonight.

When wind arrives, I will not blame the river.
When flame arrives, I will not claim the dawn.
This lamp was never made for heaven;
it keeps a path for someone walking on.

The reeds bend back. Their broken song continues.
A moth investigates the unlit frame.
I set the wick beneath its proper window
and let the silence keep its name.

One spark is not a constellation.
It is enough to show where hands belong,
and where the next light can safely gather.