Light, my raison d’etre

Light, my raison d’etre
A crack in the sky, the sleepy white of your eyes, the
company I am happy with,
Clasped hands swinging down the quiet path,
The grass whitened by footprints of overnight mist,
Leaves coloured by autumn red and gold and purple and brown,
Orange, burning rim of cigarettes
The tip-toe of stars on the slumbering lake, headlamps and
fireflies, the open refrigerator, lantern hanging
on the empty porch,
The trickle of these images, gentle and imperfectly described by turns,
limited only by talent, when I summon them to mind.
Poetry that puts on a film, takes the seat next to me,
arms around my shoulders,
Poetry without words, poetry that does not care for words,
has no time for words,
The mother, for whom ‘motherhood’ is merely a collection of alphabets
invented by somebody to fill a void, the mother who cannot give a damn
if the word exists or not,
The urgent seeker that moves down the skirt, then up from the hem,
to make its way hungrily between folds,
New learning, new thoughts, new beginnings,
old books, old times, old-er surrender,
Slant of the sun upon wet earth, the stir of wind against my
skin, the scent of wood and bark and scrub and roots,
sounds of air that sink and swell,
Life that basks in love, then reflects the product of that love,
Signature sharps and flats that join from down and up
to dissolve into rhythm of movements,
Writing that creeps discreetly up and takes hold,
that presses upon you with firm, lusty arms,
curves his strong legs about your consciousness,
until you yield to his will, breathless and fulfilled,
Lightning that stains upwards, then
another, a third, again,
Your mouth breaking into a smile against the steamy moon,
The smell of rain, the wholesome sense of rest
and content and relief,
And this list gathered from scattered puddles,
that I now toss into the fire.

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