Simply
to go on—and however flippantly
keep lifting
all of your
switches each morning—one by
one—with only
the shallowest
inclination toward gratitude—heedlessly entreating
warm and
buoyant light
fixtures—
to once again
rush down—and capriciously
laugh at
such dark
and cold hardwood;
but also
to do so gravely,
tenderly—
and with deep appreciation
for each switch's off position—not to mention
compassion
for the way—in which
those floors
begin blushing.
