On Earth Day, April 22, 2016,
first, the light outside my window.
Diffused, grey, the sky amorphous, vague,
specks of green from the newly forming, long latent buds,
Then the yellow house behind my yard suddenly begins to glow.
Is the sun emerging?
Next, the light within.
This is harder to find, to define, because I am ill.
What happens to the inner light when its container is rough edged, sore, afraid?
Next, the light underground.
How can I ever sense it, feel it, know it?
Does the earth’s rumbling alert me to impending explosion?
A vast, encompassing brilliance like the burst of a thousand suns,
exploding at once, The Shatterer of Worlds, as
Oppenheimer put it, observing the first atomic explosion?
And finally the last light of life,
light at the end of the tunnel; does this light
beckon me to a new life, a new light?