Something About Light

It is always feathers and turning shadows

into something about light;

moving like the morning glory

from the far side of destiny,,

with tendrils of gold

falling from an oval sky.

It warms the slanting chair

then melts across the pathway of cement

into the room towards the crumple of sheets,

still indented by the night.

I close my eyes and turn on the sky,

wait for the fragrance of line-dry

to open doors and let out the danger

of the dragging-down fog,

as the dog, warm and filled with barking,

furs swiftly past my leg

into the mockingbird's song.

Inside this room of bone and skin

I awaken to the possibility of wing.

It is always feathers and flight

and the changing way of shadows

and something about light.