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The waking she-dreamer spoke always in qualities of light;
in champagne sun, effervescent in a winter-day’s flute,
in the shimmered orbs of haloed candle heads
that are shaped and re-shaped by the night’s gentle hands.

She sang me the light of morning, rising lilac from a misted field.
She danced me the light of evening, sinking red into a cooling sea.
In whispers, she shared the language of the moon,
her white words echoing up from a thousand mirrors of dew.

She’d scoop up brightness with a wooden spoon,
pouring it slow, like amber syrup, upon moments
now preserved and sealed in Ball jars
that she’d line up on the kitchen sill, just above the sink.

She’d capture starshine in her mother’s flour sifter,
turning its handle twelve hours long to grind a romantic dust
that she’d shake into pillow cases, sprinkle silver in her old brown shoes
and mark upon my eager, learning brow.

She wove her work into my skin; chiaroscuro’s one-eyed student.
Eloquent in my education of ephemeralness,
I'd never been still in the arms of a mote-filled beam,
being present to the presence of light without seeking to keep it.

For the light learns that in keeping, there lies a deeper losing that denies all now
and eyes made full of only what is passing
no longer have room for the shining that is
or for the qualities of having.


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