between the way the sunlight fell to earth,
this afternoon, and
between the way it rose yesterday morning,
i can feel how it was to collect drops of sun
the way i did
before they finally settled
into my heart, like a quiet pool of sun and shadows
of rain and things we forgot.
tonight, like the glassine pool,
the house is quiet, settled. there are no swinging
doors, no shutters to creak in the wind
— no wind, in fact
and nothing of mystery, shrouded
but there is
in every corner, settled,
elevating the dust bunnies to some higher, almost celestial plane.
i am surprised how the easily the words untwist and unwind, once i
the inaugural word out of the pen.
i would have expected something
more akin to the way a rusted pump handle
is sealed to itself, stubborn underneath
the chipping paint of a spring thaw
after a dozen years of unuse.
but here, tonight, in the november stillness the letters seem to
jump into place,
seem to alit the wick, as it were,
and flow like melted wax
like the flame in the glass bowl
across the room.