Light Like Water
One season bleeds into another. As rivulets form streams, and streams find rivers, as rivers lose themselves completely in the sea, in March, on the first warm day, we lose ourselves in light. Like rain, it falls on everyone, the saved and those that aren't completely sure. Light like water.
Face upturned to the sun, the invalid body, no nurse available, drinks with thirst unquenchable. Would kneel and give thanks if it could kneel. The light is merciful, complete. It falls on graves, soaks deep into the earth, down and farther down, so that the fingertips of the dead begin to tingle, are warmed, and touching dry faces, know they are remembered. Light like water. Tears run down chilly cheeks. But what do tears mean? Tears are not words, but tears can speak of things not easily spoken of.
The winter was unending, all void and impasse. No corpse believes in spring. Thirst was ever-present, but the word for thirst was gone. But today the children on the playground fling off their heavy coats. They run through walls of light as if through waves at a far-off seashore. They shout. Their voices come and go. Light like water. The sparrows peck the seeds I scatter and wait, as we all do, for more. We all want more.
Face upturned to the sun, eyes closed, like someone very old ( how old am I?), I drink it in. Light like water. Stunned by it all, I say the words over and over and step into the light again.