Light is all around us, days and nights are filled with it, if you know where to look. At solstice, a strange sun lives and dies in burning bushes, presses bright dreams against the eyes of the blind. Each season bears its own kind, light thin as spiders' shattered winter silks, their blown shadows blue, trailing
across spring's pale face. That shining draws all things green closer to its heart, traces feathered wands of wheat, wades through corn ripening. Children float in its shimmer, swim through luminous layers of leaves gold on gold. It pours through stained glass,
Sunday rivers thick with colors, defines the dark by candle, by star,
by moon whose light is cold, who drops
those hard white stones
leading out of fairy tales,
promising chance, change, a covenant, benediction.