Direction of the Light

the frightened philosopher
was afraid to come in here
he said
as he gently tucked
a loose tendril
of wisteria
back into itself
they were always coming loose
like wisps of hair
across her forehead
from the tangled vine
in which they grew
hanging over our heads
that marked the entrance
to the garden
his movements were
too swift to see
and I wondered vaguely
do angels do such things
with a hand
or a wing
oh yes! I said

I love it in here now
you know
once I realized
from where

the light was coming
is it always like this?
do words mean
more than themselves
and the events of the day
do they always sing
in such glorious alignment?

for even when I seem to die
I know there will be
something in me
that seems to float

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