In late morning
the long light oozes down
through stilled mobiles
of bare branches.
It drenches ponds
and it blesses bushes
it kisses grass
and it stains park benches,
pouring thick and quiet honied glory
on every inch it touches.
But though i feel illuminated
as any rock or twig so-blinded,
i alone can look and see
the place from which the light rushes.
And though that glory seems
to ring from every bit of brush,
i know that it really lives
in my hunch of the bright as such-
and not on what, when brightened,
blushes.
