Tag: Light

My sunspot

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I could hear the trees creaking.

I could hear the trees creaking
as your breathing slowed,
and I fell asleep
to the peaceful mixture.

I dreamed of nymphs,
nimble and wiry,
dancing and singing
in the windy night.

When the sun peeked
through the blinds
the next morning,
she reminded me
of everything.

She made me wonder
if you were sunshine
in human form.

You are fiery and blinding,
yet warm against my skin.

Like when using a weighted blanket,
I am equal parts comforted and nervous.

It’s scary and confusing
to embark on this path
with so many unknowns or
unvoiced thoughts.

But it’s warm here,
with my sunspot.

Maybe the light that’s
bursting from my chest
sees the light
tucked away in you.

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.

Saturday (pt. 1)

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I gazed at the moon last night.
She was bright, even
through the clouds,
casting silhouettes
across the pasture.

You told me about light
and how the sun produces
tiny, tiny, tiny particles
that penetrate all matter.

I asked if that made me a
tool for light —
if you strung me up
like a chandelier,
would I shine for all below?

While no slipped from your lips,
I was already miles away,
following this stream of particles
in their journey.

Light

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I learned about space
yesterday.

Most of it went over my head,
like the number of light years
separating us on different planets,
and the non-linear timeline that exists
outside human conventions.

When the sun finally explodes, that light
will take just over 8 minutes to reach us.

What would you do in that time?
If these were our last 8 minutes,
would you let me take your hand in mine?

If it were storming,
would you watch the lightning dance
across the sky with me?

I’ve been waiting for inspiration as if
it were a bolt of light.

I’ve been thinking about you,
without any understanding
of what it means.

The thoughts are strange,
persisting within the state of limbo
that’s attempting a coup in my brain.

Maybe I’ll find the nerve to speak
them aloud, swift and breathless,
imitating lightning.

Maybe I won’t, letting them
blister and fizzle in the heat
of white light.

Either way, this light shines
with no dimmer, no off switch.