|The glass, all empty, turns out to be full
||[Jun. 20th, 2008|01:22 am]
I ain't no Sarah Burghardt, but here's an attempt:
Another day's insistent rays incite
my grudging eyes to open, blurring red
dawn-glow with blood. I stumble from the bed;
I squint; I groan; I try to stand upright.
What drug, what magic spell makes sun less bright?
This water glass will have to do, instead.
One sip, and stars explode inside my head.
I blink; I stall; I drink it all in spite.
But when I'm done and set it down at last,
I see that it was magic all along:
a thousand rainbows dance across the wall.
The morning sun, refracting through the glass!
Both optimists and pessimists are wrong.
The glass, all empty, turns out to be full.
It could be better, but I like that I was able to write a poem about light without ever actually using the word "light", even though it would've fit.