The Edges of Light

(Originally published in Tidal Basin Review, Spring, 2012 Issue)

When entering a darkened room
  that I know by heart,
I close my eyes to locate the lamp;
my feet and hands
move via memories of their own:
  they find the switch and click it on.

In this tangible space, nothing is foreign.
There is the light by which we see,
  and the light by which we know.  

But the night sky,
in the largest room of all,
  plays tricks with this simple code:
conjuring fiction and myths in constellations,         
it neatly displays the local stars and moon
  on its canvas of black. 
How adroitly this pool of ink
disguises its depth,  as it holds back
  the clearest view of what is and is not.      

It takes the brilliance of sunshine to expose
the mossy walls in the well of my knowing:  

Each time I reach into the daytime dome,
  and explore the edges of light,     
the sky’s steadfast silence remains as certain
as it was on that crystalline day of childhood.
  Then, lying in a cradle of grass,
I saw and believed an inner flash—
as full and complete as the ceiling of the world—
  telling me this field of endless blue   
is the most tangible grasp I will have of it all.