All the time
I want to write with light,
the way a winter sun can send tendrils
along the fern-spine and drip,
onto moss-hair and stone.
But the truth is, I also like the shadows,
the dark lines of the bark,
the crack in the shell,
the point in the water where
everything fades into mystery.
This is the season of the womb,
where words are known more by touch
and the candle-light
makes me sigh in wonder
as it glows in velvet darkness.