First Light that Saw
Light on his face,
light from the ceiling fan filling his features
opening the eyes behind glowing lids—
the desire to see,
pressing his shoulder blades to the bone,
the desire to live, the desire to make
of his world not a box of dreams;
exulting mask on the table,
ready to put on,
for the wearer is not afraid.
Light from the flower leaves
wetting the grass petals
in summer where the stone grows,
light on the table.
Light on his brain along the curvature of fossilized matter,
out of old bones,
first light that saw.