With all your science can you tell how it is,
and whence it is, that light comes into the soul?
- Henry David Thoreau
Traveling Light
I had not intended to stay this long,
Not trusting my way back in the dark,
But I am held here by the setting sun
Slowly climbing the trunks of two oaks
So close and entwined they are one tree,
Their bark flickering and then flaming
Along the lower limbs where the leaves
Have not yet turned but the lingering
Light illumines them as though they were
Not the reflection but the source of it,
Now guttering in an earthy incense haze
Until only the tips of the topmost branches,
Touching, reaching out to hold it, fold
Into the last light like hands in prayer.
And I think: There! That's how it happens.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 593 times
Editors' choice
Written on 2011-09-15 at 16:59
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