the singing of light

And the speck of my heart, in my shed of flesh and bone, began to sing out, the way a sun would sing if the sun could sing, if light had a throat, if god wasn't just an idea but shoulders and a spine, gathered frozen from everywhere, even the most distant planets, blazing up. Where am I? Even the rough words come to me now, quick as thistles. Who made your tyrant's body, your thirst, your delving, your gladness? Oh tiger, oh bone-breaker, oh tree on fire! Get away from me. Come closer.

--Mary Oliver, from West Wind