OctoberI sit with braided fingersand closed eyesin a span of late sunlight.The spokes are closing.It is fall: warm milk of light,though from an aging breast.I do not mean to pray.The posture for thanks orsupplication is the sameas for weariness or relief.But I am glad for the luckof light. Surely it is godly,that it makes all thingsbegin, and appear, and becomeactual to each other.Light that’s sucked intothe eye, warming the brainwith wires of color.
-May Swenson
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