Seeing in a New Light
17 August 2006
The sun is too bright to see you
standing on the edge of the porch
trying to decide if the step
will be down or just turn around
and come back through the open door.
Windless, the dogwood did not move,
its red berries are poisonous,
my words were like a bowl full.
Your sister had told you to cut
me loose, last night after you phoned,
as if I was some sort of fish
caught in the line, too old to eat,
struggling to get back upstream
and making you work too damn hard.
You probably don't remember
telling me your sister had bad karma
and all her relationships die
like a lot of folk's pet goldfish.
The wind picks up as you walk down
slowly past waving dogwood leaves.
Beyond the shadows, sunlight waits.
You cross the yard into the warmth,
morning painted in deep colors,
the canvas in four dimensions.
In this moment, I can see you
in a new light, absent my words,
devoid of my definition.
© 2006, Satya J. Gabriel