Fresh

Torn down by longing,

I pass through a state of fitful meanness

and come out

on the other side,

transparent and content with the citrus fizz

of the cold medicine

you pour into a cup for me,

the light of your heart

in the middle of the day

like no bright sun

I’ve seen, a soft beam

that doesn’t burn

but nurtures,

a shine with no sharp edges.

You often play with metaphors

about light

(and other things),

your thoughts returning

to syllables

in strangeness,

telling new stories

inside the hoops

and wriggles of words,

each one a narrative of brightness

delivered with the particulars

of each moment’s unexpectant love

for its hues and angles,

for its curves and disparities.

Not a reconsideration,

but some kind

of birth.

©Laura Sorrells 2007

all rights reserved

I wrote this in 2007 for someone I loved very much.