Light
Sliding, slipping, and
skipping through leaves of my trees
It casts shadows I
haven’t send for a year-they appear to tell me winter is near
Its light digs deep and
dark along the backyard; places where the sun used to spill everywhere
I watch green, yellow,
and red.
As each falls I turn my
head, because I have heard it said, “snow is up ahead.”
Gliding shafts of
summer sun chilled by earth’s early morning dew
Heat grown still on
shots of cold, it is the only to hear instructions of when and how…
The light is changing
and my mind is rearranging
Winding around the oak,
pine, and spruce
Waiting for what only
the purest light can produce:
the deepening shadows,
the glowing afternoon,
and the lingering moon.
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