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.

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?

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.