Category: Light

Sincerely,

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Hey,
I know it’s been a while.
How are you?

Me?
I’m okay,
‘okay’ being nearly as
noncommittal of a word
as ‘interesting’.

Why?
Well, it’s been a whirlwind
of days since Saturday.
My brain hasn’t really had time
to turn off.

I’ve been on autopilot,
trying to be as useful as possible —
trying to not make mistakes.

No mistakes?
Well, of course I’ve made them.
I’ve been naive,
my lack of experience showing.

No one has said anything though,
all too tired to either care
or feel the need to point
out my word choice.

Do I know what day it is?
I would have told you Friday,
but I know that’s incorrect.
Maybe Thursday?

It’s Wednesday?
I believe it,
but I hope Thursday
comes soon.

Why?
Well. That’s one day farther.
One day more removed.
One day with more potential.
One day I might actually see you.

Yes. You.
It’s been a while, I know.

The light’s turned on today.
Each bulb glowing like a star.

There was beauty in the quiet,
peace in the unknown.

Now the refrigerator kicks on,
and my light comes from a lamp,
not candle or lantern.

You have to go?
Okay. It was nice to chat.
Perhaps we can do it again.

Have a good one.


One year

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I wrote a poem on this day
last year — grateful
for someone and something
that sparked a light for me.

I chased that light,
feet and heart pounding
as I stumbled along.

When I finally found her,
she snuggled into my chest,
cradled by curved bone
and soft organs.

On this day last year,
I did not know of
all that could (and would)
happen.

I graduated college holding a pink rose;
a black sling was my greatest accessory;
my heart saw potential in vulnerability; and
I moved to a new home with friendly shadows.

I’m eager to see what happens next,
knowing that the impossible
has already occurred.

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I am a speck,
an infinitesimal speck in the whole
of everything.

I am merely particles —
light particles taken shape
to mimic the movements
of human. girl.

Sometimes, I think
a sunbeam will absorb me,
me who is drawn like a cat
to blots of light.

It’s easier to believe
my flesh and bones are merely
assumed, not definitive.

I want to know
what it feels like to fly
without purpose or direction.

I want to know
what it feels like to float
without time ticking by.

If I was light,
I could be early morning wonder;
I could be warmth against your
flushed cheeks.

The dew would sparkle,
calling out my name
as if I were the most beautiful,
beautiful thing.

Moths

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My light’s been flickering
in and out

in and out.

It’s hard to know if the flame
is fed or killed by the winds
blowing through my lungs.

I’m coming back to this light, my light,
after months of shedding it,
unassumingly, for others,
for you.

I’m trying to hold tight
as the shadows tangle
around the flame,
trying snuff out
each burning ember.

I want to give light,
but I need to keep some
for the fairies sleeping in tree galls
and under mushrooms;
for the fireflies at midnight; and
for my burning chest
and tired limbs.

I’m circling my light
as if a brown moth
dancing in worship
of the unknown
and unseen.

Some light may slip through
to shine for you, for them,
but she’s my lighthouse,
guiding me across
this glistening sea.

Oh so pretty

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When I squint,
the lights strung around
my bed look like stars,
each emitting a tiny halo
of brightness.

They remind me of many nights
under the open sky.
My senses recall
music and wine and blankets,
dewy grass and owls,
violent laughter in the darkness,
sweatshirts and hammocks.

Each tangible and nonphysical element
lingers in my mind, sending goosebumps
up each arm, reminding me of past joys.

Everything seems tough, right now,
as if an extra layer of grease rests
on every baking sheet needing to be washed,
but I think these memories are meant
to remind me of simple moments
I never anticipated happening,
as if each light were a beacon
from the past pointing me forward.

Water towers too

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It feels like a stereotype —
the windmills, the old ford truck,
the cows in pasture —
and yet that’s my view.

There’s also the 70 mph
two-lane road and
the broken down barns.
The sky would normally be
empty for miles and miles,
but it’s grey and overcast.

The sun is setting,
orange light silhouetting
clouds, and it’s reminding
me of home.

I miss the cradle of the mountains,
the easy flow of the river,
the forests of pine and hemlock.

We passed an old tree
struck down by lightning.
I wonder what that would feel like,
to feel the surge of light,
of electricity.

I can imagine speaking in sparks,
shocking those around me.
I’d never let it stop,
forever giving my body to the light,
shining with each crackle,
each sizzle, of power.

My home would no longer
be that valley,
but a field of grasses
and coneflowers.

Not a bad trade-off,
I suppose, to create a
new home in this place
and share this light with you.

Shortcomings

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Two words sit
at the forefront of my brain:

‘understanding’ and ‘language.’

I’ve struggled with ‘understanding’
for a while now. She sits in the corner,
mocking and teasing and trying
to show me something,

something light in the darkness
of it all. Yet, the more
I gather, the more knowledge
I filter, the more it feels
like I’m wearing a straightjacket
of turquoise ribbons and
blood-red stitching.

How do we communicate
anything? How do we
listen and respond
when our ears and brains don’t
understand the shapes the others’
mouths form — the symbols
the others’ hands gesture?

I feel confined in my understanding
when the shapes and symbols
I make fall short.

What is language when no one
is there to receive? When no one
takes the time to learn — to teach?

Some language transcends
the common standards
of shapes and gestures.

There are few people
I understand through
the fanfare and
in the straightjacket
of turquoise ribbons
and blood-red stitching.

You are one of them,
whether you understand
or not.

If only more could hear
and see beyond the
shapes and gestures.
Perhaps, then
we’d come together.

You and this floating feeling

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I feel like I’m floating,
floating in some great abyss,
but it’s not dark in here.

It’s blinding, blinding
with light and stars
and dust and vastness.

Answers. Plans.
Less distance.

That’s what
I’m thinking about
when I think of you.

These thoughts
aren’t entirely self-driven.
They are out of care, for you.

I grew so attached,
so quickly,
and I think you did too,
else this wouldn’t be so hard.

I’m comfortable
in this floating,
but I know that’s not shared.

What is your gut saying?
Does it align with your left-brain?

I hope I’m not making this harder
for you by sharing these thoughts.

I know, I probably am —
me and my glue-like tendencies.

Yet floating here,
and liking you so dearly,
it feels easy, simple.

I’ve got the feathers,
the breeze beneath my wings
to carry on like this.

Is it sustainable?
Maybe, maybe not,
but I think that’s
something we get to define.

Boots, boards, and broken elbows

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Who would have thought,
a week before graduation,
I would be sitting here
typing with only one hand
as the other arm is splinted from
bicep to knuckle.

I hope you don’t
blame yourself.
I find the whole situation
highly amusing.

Who would have thought,
I’d be sitting here,
feeling this way
one week before graduation.

I hope reading these
words isn’t scary,
being the raw honesty
I carry inside.

I often feel splintered,
un-whole, broken.
I guess I am one
of those things now.

You make me think
those thoughts less.

Last night,
you asked, “why, me?”

A complicated question
that words barely scratch
the surface of.

There’s comfort
between us, like
fresh laundry
or a hot cup of tea.

There’s easy laughter,
smiles and gazes
that spark *something.*

And then
there’s you,
a bright light in my life.

Perhaps you are the light
I’ve been searching for …