Sunday, December 15, 2013

Dusk at Round Lake

The rain of tires on Route 9
fades to abstraction as
wind stirs water, light
reflects here and not there,
subtle mirrors, pink fragments, and
the cold air's rousing call
on my skin—a turning
from the linear, from the
rush and crawl, to Round Lake,
clouds like calling fingers,
and a rounding moon.

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Light's Travels

How many lenses have we
passed through, how many
times have we bent in darkness,
felt gravity's capricious hand
alter our course, all the while,
light driving out dark,
one thin strand at a time?

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

What The Light Says

That moment when I
enter your eye, know this:

I am not the light you see,
this wave from deep space,
this beam of particles
pin-pricking your night sky--
I was molten hot, swollen,
roiling, violent, swallowing
worlds like yours, then
collapsing inward,
dark, dense, inert, spent.
All I am now is energy, a thin,
unbroken reminder of what
was, what is. It matters not.

My wisdom is this:
You are dust from us,
deep in a red-shifted past,
and you will again be light,
in this universe of
flight and capture,
running and returning.

A Letter to My Students

I don’t say it enough, but I care about you. Each of you. That’s why I’m here. It’s too much work to do it for the money, so there must be ...