We spend our lives in shadows,
embracing a warmth of sun
that is done too soon:

A bending of prairie wind
sends a sudden chill of stillness,
a sensing of clouds passing over us.

Believing that we can see,
we grope for larger vision,
a knowing of things
the way they seem to be.

Noses pressed against the glass darkly,
we catch some sense of changing hues,
renew suspicion that we have missed something,

Some new sense
shattering the illusion of comprehension,
shards of knowledge crackling around us.

In the stark slanting light
of a winter’s sun,
we see the shadows sharp and real,
feel them defined on skin and stone.

The bone-cold truth stretches into our being,
a seeing of light and dark,
a sensing in the heart

of a greater truth,
a knowing that shade is proof of substance,
that revelation is given in increments of understanding.

Even though the brightness
is proof of darkness,
even though we must endure the night,
we do not have to claim its nature.

Beyond the skewing shadow,
beyond the yes and no of contrast,
beyond all that is seen, felt, touched and tasted

There is uninterrupted Light.

H. Arnett
11/3/09