Diffused rays of ever-brightening light
scoot across the hardwood floor,
pooling on the space where we last lay together.

A long, yellow-pine slat of wood
gleams in the afternoon sun;
a bump of lacquer breaks above the surface.

For eons, we have coaxed each other
into the light, bearing down upon us
in ever-whitening stripes of purification.

Our love becomes the light, seeping through
the dark crevices of our hearts,
scouring the deep recesses of shadow and doubt.

The floor creaks as we glide across it,
hardy survivor of this hundred-year-old house.
Our love creaks as the past thrusts itself into the present.

We cannot grasp it, but we feel its warmth
wash over us again and again. We know
the light of love overcomes all oblivion.