I’ll be your harvester of light.
—Sara Bareilles, “Winter Song”
Darling, it is dark.
Here are my hands,
the hidden spirals
in the palms. And here,
from my fingertips,
my forehead, my feet,
streams of photons—
invisible beacons,
tiny energized
increments of light.
From yours, too. Imagine
the lattice we make.
The Buddhists say
we are what we are
only in relation
to what we are not.
This long night.
This darkness. This
thinking we are alone.
I see a connection between, “we are what we are only in relation to what we are not,” and “thinking we are alone.” Apart from relations, we don’t exist. We’re to be one _with_ the Universe.
Love, “Imagine/the lattice we make.” Also, I’m transfixed by the image of you and Eric with, “streams of photons—invisible beacons, tiny energized increments[!] of light.” It’s not a hard image to conjure, by the way.
Hang in there. Just a little more than a week and a half, and the Universe will tip back in your enlightened favor.
Apart from relations, we don’t exist. So succinct! I feel I need to say that the lattice line is one I essentially overheard … My friend Rachel said it the other morning while we were walking in the pinon and juniper. And as for the dark, the light, well, I guess I disagree a little with the buddhists and think that we are both … Not some dual what we are/are not.
Though as much as I have been embracing the darkness lately, I won’t mind when the light comes round …
The opening line, so simple: darling, it is dark. Everything in the poem springs from the idea of light reflected by the human relationship. It’s that “darling” that begins the dance…
Glad to hear it … I questioned it, but it insisted on staying there.