First
Light
This same thin wash of winter light
basted hard wood fen that once stood
silent where I sit watching mornings hem
gather high on the jutting hip of noon. It
gently scrubbed the stubble field that scored
the old Watch farm, cleared the crumbling
lip of fresh dug cellar, made clapboard blush,
set alight the highest branches of the plane
tree as it gained the roof line by degree, swept
this room with a watery beam that found both
lingerers, tweezing out gauzy strands of dreams, and
the empty chairs of hunters and the hunted,
caressing, on occasion, those who relished
a second cup while waiting for words to swim
into view and scribe an arc to nightfall.
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