Projecting through the window, a splay of light
marks the floor and
walls: an inlay of light.
The room’s corners hide in shadow like outlaws,
conceal generations of secrets not slain by light.
Winter segues to summer through a short spring—
ice to green sycamores in the heat of May light.
Luminous shapes fade with the hours of day—
memories with time’s fraying of light.
Is this what dying feels like? my mother asked.
Her eyes closed, her body shut down, I prayed for light.
Reprinted by permission of the author.
From Think, vol. 9.2 (2019)