Tigs Huertas

My Own Light Is A Slow Strobe

 

My own light is a slow strobe

a fish-tank timer.
Irregular, phased illumination,
a moon distracted.
Natural light
it comes as it will,
white shafts through the forest,
breaking it's ceiling,
searching ways to fall.
Some find the floor.
So too my own light filters
through a tangled canopy.
Through muddy shadows where 
sounds sink, absorb.
Some dapple, some cut through
- a spear in shallow water -
when the beam is strong.

I wait for it, invite it,
then I fight it.
Resenting that above the vines
brightness is whole,
unbroken, like your porch lamp that
never goes out.
High above, foliage dictates
How Much I get,
to share with dark leaves and mosses.
I like the dark.
 
Still, I'll chop down trees.
And when the sun climbs
it will show the brilliance  
the ugliness
of undergrowth exposed.

I won't need a torch
And the moths will all go.
 


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