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.