Some days are quieter and dustier
than ever
and only with the greatest effort
will some light fall on a tiny corner
of a windowsill
and a plant or a vase may appear there,
filled with hazy lilacs.
Perhaps a tiny long-suffering remnant of light
will still move towards a table,
hesitate before a notebook,
where a few words might jump up,
startled, and see at last who is writing them there.
But outside the sun still sets, as black as jet,
the stars still sparkle inkily,
every firefly still cloaks itself in smoke.
Occasionally a brief afterglow, somewhere, illuminates
the darkest things,
dust, beetles, corners.
