An Ode written on the occasion of the 146th birthday of Thomas Edison.

A lot has been said about light. The state wants everyone to trade in for compacts, extolling their virtues in so many words and regulations. But Edison, may he rest in peace, made the first one round like the sun and hot like a candle. Six thousand years of men trying to see can’t be too wrong. Best not to stray too far from what graces God gave us since the beginning.

The machinists put a switch on it. No sunrise, no sunset .The sunrise gives hope after the long, cold night.The sunset, a warning, lest we be plunged into complete darkness in a moment. The candle’s fuel is up for all to see and drops inches with each hour. It’s no surprise when it grows short. But bombs and tyrants can throw their own switches as well as we can.

That’s why we quickly invented faders too. Those telling stories – the playwrights and filmmakers – use more faders than anyone else .They know switches will break the spell. When the lights go down in the house, we become like the spirit, hovering over the deep. The light is about to be brought forth. The story is about to start again. Smaller this time, but still in imitation of our Father, who bought light into being first and foremost.

His stars go supernova each day and their light makes its way to those who do not comprehend it. We turn to our curly compact, coiled like a snake, and pull the chain.