What have you heard?

That the gift of light fades at end of sunset?

That it recedes in metered rush

from sea and prairies, mountains, piney spires;

across the smudge of dazed cities

or the huddle of villages bent inward?

It is alive, the light, and shows off truth.

It stretches, seeps, spreads thin–

but does not fade like a frayed blue skirt

or dimming eyesight of an old woman.

No, it laps at my bare feet, scrolls across daunting skies.

It plies swamp, desert hollow, drifting ice with its glory,

then eases up with barest strokes,

each a bright exhalation upon earth. A sweetening of light.

I was struck dumb by light as a child

while hidden in the maple, gazing inward,

skating over frozen water, rising from muddy lakes:

there, see that light casting itself,

holding all close and letting go, floating

as if made of feathers, as if whispering powerful secrets.

I wanted to be opened, remade by this.

To be on intimate terms with sun and lightning,

stars and moon. More. And since it is easy

to surrender to beauty, so have I been.

I find it. Or it finds me. Us.

What do you believe? That it leaves us?

Light does not vanish, it pauses then arcs,

saturates what we cannot see; ruffles the soul,

agitates this veil of skin as it leads us into

more shifting and shining in those hard places

we lay our heads, plant our feet, keep on.

This house of magic is where we weep and rejoice.

Where life ignites, scatters, glimmers, alters,

its prismatic colors a vision that turns

inside out notions of every single thing.

Light can then transfuse the heart, these

veins and arteries all lit up like pathways

to a surprise party where love awaits.