We Know Which Way to Grow by the Way the Light Hits Us

(For my grandfather)

Sometimes when the world

sinks into dreaming

and stone seems transparent

in the light urging shadows

to take on flesh and dance

I re-live yellow mornings

pronounced perfect

by your voice.

You move back to me

with such grace

I can recognize the wings of angels

in the cloudy insistence of the storm,

carry an absent woman home

in my arms,

look every pain in the eye

and do everything else

that can be lifted by love.