The left eye, the stronger one, of course,
keeps developing itches, swellings,
red bubbles that scratch.
Occasional flashes of light—
that ophthalmologist’s question
to which “yes” strikes fear.
But, the doctor assures me,
the tissue is healthy and
if I’m not getting floaters,
I can relax.

More than flashes of light,
what I long for is light itself:
glitter, flicker, slow burn
sunrise, voluptuous slow sunset, 
cloudy, muted tones, crystal blues, 
fading grey-yellow of a storm. 

And when I look up from my work
the sun seeps over the winter woods,
golden brown and grey, 
gleaming bark, shadows hiding under 
fallen leaves. Even barrenness 
shows her beauty
when caressed by a beam. 

God, keep me from living in darkness. 
                        

Choose your space carefully,
somewhere no one can hear.
Graveyards are usually private,
even if no one you love is buried there.

Choose a sound or sounds.
It can be many notes
or a single middle C.
Let your voice hold it
until breath expires.

They must pass through you, 
those waves of grief. Watch
them ripple, diamond-tipped.
You will never be free,
but tsunamis are rare. 

So choose your method carefully,
tend and polish it until well worn,
and share, since no one can corner this market;
one day someone can use it 
to comfort you into the next world.