Light / Alice Jones

The morning when I first notice

the leaves starting to color,

early orange, and back-lit,

I think how rapture doesn't

vanish, merely fades into

the background, waits for those

moments between moments.

I think this and the door opens,

the street takes on its glistening

look, Bay fog lifting, patches of sun

on sycamore––yellow sea.

I am in again, and swimming.