Already the body
is dawn. Before
the eastern glow. Before
the edges of darkness
give up any of their darkness.
It is not that we deserve it,
this light. It is just
that here it is,
inside us, continuing
to grow, the way
plumeria seem to grow
on what looks like dead wood.
But grow they do, with
all that perfume, too,
and all that milky white.
Who can say how
such beauty comes
from what looks
lifeless? But it does.
Your blossoming,
my blossoming.
Crazy how light
it can be,
this darkness.
