What I Mean When I Say Light

When I tell you that you are Light, what I mean is not this ray of moon stuff, or a golden kiss on green Summer leaves.

I do not mean what pours over roses, anointing them with the blood of the afternoon, or the passion of an atom's voice in the carillon of a molecule.

I do not mean the ancient caress of stars on your retina, their wine taste spilling down your optic nerve into the hidden chalice behind your face.

I mean a Light inside light, I mean the rustle of bright darkness, I mean this edgeless wave of awakening, the tremor of emptiness, the spasm of gravity curling unboundedness into a proton.

I mean the blossoming of the void into a golden flower.

I mean the infinitesimal daemon of joy, tingling your bewildered flesh at the slightest brilliant stabbing of my glance.

Dear one, be an invisible current in the waveless sea, a river of wind in the empty sky, a star-wild spiraling of crystal in the silence of a stone.

Be a trumpet of whiteness whirled from the stillness in a lily's seed.

Why will you not believe in the Goddess of undulation who reposes in the blackest hollow of your spine?

What I mean by Light cannot be seen by looking, dear.

Now let your silver webs un-weave the New Moon; let gazes return to the gazer.

Meet me here, in the mirror of amazement, where there is neither birth nor death between your Radiance and its reflection.