The sun comes from behind me and I am shadowed, sheltered by our house.
Looking out, the trees still barricade the
far-away, even shorn of leaves.
The road that I can see is nearly black
again, its edges hemmed with snow,
the doubled back seam from plow or shovel.
The rest – snow spotted, winter worn.
The sun streams shadow trees away from me,
and they fall immensely, soft from
the great spaces those beams have traveled to
this tiny spot of blue and green
that beckoned those rays, beguiling despite
distance and the dark. Born in a
maelstrom of energy and glow — constant
and happenstance — a flood of light.
From that sea, what few conquer night and cloud
to achieve the tree, the release
of long grey fingers to caress the earth.
From our own vortex of what is and what
is not, comes us. I want us to
be as intended as the sun, the sky.
As if we were meant to be — not
just another happy accident of
ray and tree. Not shadows. There is
a sun, and always will be for as far
as human mind can stretch. But its
yield is each day, each day’s passing. There is
sky, but its blue yield is only
a sometime thing, I am and so are you.
But us? That is the bluest sky,
rays that become shadows as they find home.