The reach of sun, attempt to Sleep deter

In this golden, shadow’d basilica.

Mother and me—for once we stay quiet,

No wet of words, and wind do not dry it.

Flicker the crown of lights and I hear Him

In the candles, the dead with Him breathe in.

Taking one slow and white, I light it bright 

To watch the pews, the stars, and us tonight.

“For her, Oma,” I say—the wax, it seeps.

Mother of mine, she sits and weeps.