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Half-light, moonlight, the settle-down light of dusk,
the first lavender rush of dawn that reminds me
of the skin at the corners of your velvet mouth,
storm light, sunlight through the stained glass windows,
the stove light that shows your way at 4:00 am
when everything outside of you clamors insistent
until you rise and follow it, the stereo dash light the
first time you ride out with your crew at 15 feeling wild
and unknown, the headlights revealing the road mile by
mile until you are home, the white twinkle Christmas lights
your mother strung across the living room bay window,
the nightlights in the hallway refracting oriental blue and
red and ivory and wheat and you barefoot on the stairs,
the firelight, the candlelight, the sunlight that makes you
squint and stare and look a little beyond yourself,
the sacristy lit up eerie glow with the smell of wax and
frankincense that makes you swoon, the star of David
emblem on the glass that seems to shimmer beyond itself,
twilight, sparklers, 4th of July roman candles splitting
the sky that encompasses you, the diamond shard scatter
on the waves rolling and you a tide all of your own.
Whatever light is available, turn to it, let it hold you
until you can trust again the light within you that rises
and rises and carries you again back to yourself, shining.

© 2014 Dora E. McQuaid
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