Light stretching my late summer shadow long
over parched grass, low sun, this alive, this
evening. Light of mid-morning picking out
all the trees’ capillaries, black against the light
of blue’s possibilities, would I rush outside
to see this, yes I would, this light? It’s so kind,
it remembers me. Light of first thing, spilled sky
mixing day up, all the colours that go into day,
you wouldn’t believe how many. Hard light
to be walked into like a mirror, day coming
down hard on its sharp edge; you can never
really see yourself the way others do, that’s
the hard thing; or is it a good thing? (God
doesn’t answer prayers, people do.) Light as
sunbeams that lie on the floor of your room
like ways through, they’re not real ways
through they’re just a reminder that there
may be a way through. See how the cat
anoints herself in the sunbeam, for she knows
she is not mortal and is waiting for the sign …

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