More light, they say
is what Goethe said
when he died. And
I myself have begged
for light, have felt
my body close like
bindweed in the night,
but now, leaning into
winter when the shadows
are always long, when
we ourselves are more
shadow than substance
I have changed my
mind. It is beautiful,
this darkness, beautiful
in the way only
dark things can be
beautiful—not beautiful
for anyone’s approval,
beautiful nonetheless.