The motions of light which lie behind
the objects that stand in the light
are more than the jeweled molecules of the air,
more than the fine asterisks of insects
pinned against a dark backdrop.

The light harvested last week by leaves
rustles in the hot wind, and is heard
in the pealing blossoms as they emerge.

Sometimes light moves even when there is no light,
as behind your eyelids when you wake.
Just before you open them, the outlines of the objects
nearby settle into place with an audible snap,
so that when you see the room around you
there are no surprises, just the luxury of flux
as motes swirl in an intrusive beam.

The light that moves forth from me
enters these things and others,
making us what we are.

July 16, 1997

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