On the last night of each year, I sit quietly for a moment and imagine…
Which came first, my love? The night sky,
or the fissure of light splitting it?
So many years ago, at dinner, you said to me,
just before we sat at the glass-topped table,
after the champagne, before the red flint of Italian wine,
you said to me: Everything is illuminated.
I blew smoke away from you, thinking for a moment
that the emotion hid my startle until I remembered:
Nothing is hidden. If you look into their faces,
any face, nothing is hidden. It is all there, revealed.
I looked back at you, at you watching
me decide if I was turning away,
or toward you, once again.
©2011 Dora E. McQuaid
Photo by Lani Phillips Cartwright
All peace to each one of you. Dora