The Lighthouse

A tiny light is kept behind a glass

A shutter swings and squeaks against the wind

The stone is wrapped in vines, and weeds, and rain

At sea, the ships toss and tack, looking out

For light to guide them from the rocks, towards home.

Alone, asleep, the keeper lays, wrapped up

Against the cold, against the storm, eyes tight.

Up the stairs, behind the glass

Shuttered yet warm

The light waits to be tended

Against the storm.

–Peter Lehman