Light is not always bright, and not always light, but always by and by.

There is a luminosity that has been following me lately, that I have found myself treading through, which gives me a quiet strength that resurfaces should it disappear.

What is it? Who is it? The truth is, I think I could say, and write, and know. How I quietly take the elevator to the third floor of the library, fold my jacket over a chair, and sit to the glow of the gingko under the morning sun. How when I step outside I hear a friend calling my name and we talk briefly, smiling. How the water begins to boil, lunch is hot from the microwave, face red from the wind. How the day brings new words to light.

And at night, besides my lamp I write in my orange notebook, and occasionally in my green, then read poetry or theory or fiction or all. Here I am, this time on my laptop, now with my music paused. Who will I be, next sunrise, behind the blinds, in the dim, by the sky?