“Available Light” by Sandy Coomer, “Swan” by Rinat Harel

“Available Light”  by Sandy Coomer                                                                                            

I’ve come to the lake to take pictures,

capture first light lifting off water,

an image that is more

than the muted colors of a somber morning,

a world worn dull with sorrow.

 

It’s hard to find a reason to smile

when all around me the edges of the good

I believed in sink beneath a hard reality.

I can’t argue that the world isn’t sometimes terrible.

If you listen to its language, you stall beneath its weight.

 

But watch the lake. It wants nothing more

than to stroke the shore, curl kind arms

around the sun-shifted bank.

The things I want are simple too – a fingerprint

on the window of understanding, a thread of faith.

 

It’s not memory’s work to hold me crouched

against the brick walls of my suffering,

nor is it the will of my past

to latch the gate and leave my dreams starving

in the shadows of a narrow field.

 

The sun rises every morning –

the sun stands to speak at the lectern,

sweating and brimming with light.

So what if my heart is broken.

That’s part of a heart’s job – to break

 

a thousand times over the darkness of this world

and still peer through the smallest window at dawn,

ready to leap across the empty lawn

and gather whatever light lies waiting,

like manna, to fuel a single day’s breath.

 

I take what I can – a spectrum of color

as photons dance in shimmering waves,

the light brilliant and endless.

 

 

Originally Published: Oyster River Pages, August 2017

Also, the title poem for Sandy Coomer’s full length poetry collection, Available Light, Iris Press, forthcoming.

Sandy Coomer is the founder of The Rockvale Writers’ Colony and gifter of The Rockvale “Power of Creativity” Fellowship. Find out more about Rockvale here.

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“Swan” by Rinat Harel

 

“Swan,” photo art by Rinat Harel

Like the single swan on a dusk-spread river, I strive
forward into the unknown, carrying
my heritage in my bones, in my feathers.

Author: A Room of Her Own

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