It is still dark out in the garden.
From out of the moist ground
some things bloom only at night,
the moonflower, primrose, the nightshade,
and it was dark
in the garden from which we grew
and woke.
How far light must travel toward us
without that one going to the river at night
holding the water falling from the bowl, her hands,
to say this is light
This, so far, is the smallest journey, when you think of stars.
All I really know is every night
the wind returns here
but I never know where it’s been
and it moves the leaves of the open moonflower.
Light is one thing not prisoner to gravity.
So it is with darkness.
And the shadows may be in us,
but we should live by what we feel.
There’s darkness. And somewhere is the remembered,
the record, the great humanity of being.