that light can seem kind
caressing features, casting us in a glow
so perfect we’re moved to be artists, or collectors, surely—
we’d like to paint it, capture it, even
bring it to our lips to drink it in,
bring it into our hearts.
I remember us making love during that endless golden hour,
waves of light rolling across the terrain of limbs and valleys,
cream sheets gathered in a fist,
a veil of golden hair,
when you came suddenly and sure
sending me playfully forward into a mountain of pillows. You said,
“I saw the light and
it seemed then or never,”
so urgent the light can be.
How fascinating, this light
so precious as it rises, fades, clears, becomes obscured with seasons and doubt,
as though we could ever lose it,
as though it were not simply a matter of knowing.
Is not Winter here another’s Summer?
Don’t the celestial bodies dance for us in every hue,
if we just remember?
So come my love,
let us celebrate another moment on this mountain peak,
and, no matter the time,
let us dance under a perfect field of falling stars,
every wish already granted.