To Stand in Sun and Guzzle Light

between here and the greenhouse
in a shoveled canyon of the last storm
matted grass and thaw-soaked soil are
calls from the unknown one,

Step into a new sun.”

a longed-for invitation
after hunkered-months indoors
as the woodpile
disappeared under drifts
and even squirrels disappeared—
when birdsong became distant
as my dead mom’s jokey riffs

beckoning from this canyon
I see her through a pane
above this sink filled with suds and soiled plates
an avocado sprouting
from a split seed on a sill
in a half-filled cup of water
it’s leaves precisely arcing as she waits

—this is what it means to be alive
to stand in sun and guzzle light,
to be an ignorant dishwasher
urging the sun a bit further in its arc
to a more gracious point
in its persistent, inexplicable
circling of a star

by Jim Culleny

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