The sunlight that looks
through blinds past dawn
paints stripes across
spectral spines of books.
I like the way that looks
sliding across the white wall
when I come down the hall
for coffee.
The slant will shift
the angle sink or lift
as earth sails the sun’s
seasonal winds.
But no matter the lumens
that sight of ceiling high
shelves stacked bindings looming
in doomed winter dark will
shine forth discursive blooms
words woven as if by loom
enough to illuminate
a morning living room.
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