Dec 17


For the thousandth time today the air is still.
Candles lit and sinking into the indoor night,
safe from the wind running its hands through
the clouds outside.  A war was won and this
is how we celebrate, still.  And for the first time

I understand what the light knew thousands
of years ago.  I understand what it is
to say that the walls are submerged in a bath
of light, their long fingers curled on the edges
of the tub; old, water-ribbed book in hand.
The trumpet in the corner is bright with pride,

suddenly ready for the spittle and the battle cry. 
The light is miraculous for its stillness, the way
it draws attention away from itself, a mirror to
the books, the wall.  In the mirror of light
the air grows silent and regards itself. 
It doesn’t dance; it stands.  Still.