The light I see
isn't the sun's kisses
or the dancing artificial lights
strung from post to post
on your back yard

It's the smile of a young one,
it's the bashfulness of a teen.
The wise grin of a senior
and the dancing of the willow trees.

It's in your bright, dark eyes.
Your soot-covered white shoes.
The fresh power of the season
and the heart that you unfold.

It's in everyday mysteries
riddles, histories.
The puppy from the shelter,
the sweat of a med worker.

The dying but strong gleaming eyes
of a strong lad sick in bed
no one in his family can be there
but the nurse, his senior by decades
is right next to him, close
enough for
warmth

In the drops of dew on the shards of green
the broken but perfect pottery on the swinging chair.

A white butterfly perched
on the tipping plastic cup
discarded in a field.

Light is "light", it
may depend on what we say