Skylight

July 26 2015

Looking up

as it came down hard

was like slipping into the narrow cleft

between glistening rock

and the waterfall;

the greyly filtered light,

a river of rain, streaming-off

its curved glass dome.

And in the sun-shower

like living in a glass house.

Not insubstantial glass

as fragile as a crystal vase,

but something light and strong

and open to the world,

almost seamless

in-and-out.

A photographic plate

fully exposed.

Clattering to earth

a handful of stones.

All winter, buried in snow

when I crave the light.

And in spring, all the windows and doors

thrown wide;

immaterial glass

and walls of standing  air.

And when the angle is right

a shaft

of sun-warmed light slants in.

Convection rises, gas expands

and dust motes dance,

as if materializing

from the shadow side,

the flat air

that had seemed so lifeless

in the cool dark.

Handprints

where I lean all my weight,

nose print

where I press up against

the triple pane of glass,

always longing to be

where I am not.