There

the candle breathes

upon a lowly table.

It's light opens, softens

warms the room in which

it sits.

This light, I'm drawn to it

Drawn in it as a new creation:

One softer, warmer, visible only

in the subtle illumintations it brings.

There

the lightbulb shines -

A mechanical thing, for sure.

It's light as well, though:

Brighter, piercing, clean.

It lets nothing hide.

It casts all 'soft' away.

And yet, it is light.

Some prefer that type of light.

To judge would be undoing.

For truly, either of these brights

Will fade, if daylight's wooing.