This week’s poetry arrives as we light the fourth Advent candle and turn toward love. Written in couplets—because connection requires at least two—the poem observes a quiet evening: four flames on the wreath, a wife beside me on the couch, a neighbor and his wife stringing lights across the street. The form mirrors the content: pairs leaning toward each other, holding.
🎧 Hear the poem aloud or read at your own pace—whichever speaks to you today.
Four Candles
By Scott Tilley
Two purple, one rose, one the color of wine.
The wreath holds what weeks of waiting have made.
My wife sits beside me on the couch,
her shoulder touching mine, no words required.
The tree lights blink their patient rhythm.
The dogs have settled into their evening shapes.
Outside, a neighbor strings lights along his eaves,
his ladder leaning, his wife holding it steady.
Four candles now. Four Sundays of showing up
to this room, this wreath, this practice of attention.
Tomorrow the cards go out, imperfect and enough.
Next week the center candle finally lights.
Tonight we simply sit in what we've built:
hope, peace, joy, and now this quiet warmth.
Her hand finds mine without looking.
The flames lean toward each other and hold.🪞 Poet’s Note
I wrote this on the couch, which is where many of my poems begin. My wife was reading beside me, and I noticed how the four candles on our Advent wreath seemed to mirror us: two flames side by side, having shown up week after week, leaning toward each other without effort. I found myself writing in couplets, the only form that felt right for a poem about pairs. Connection, after all, requires at least two.
✍️ Poetry Matters from Spirituality Today