We watched the light sift through the air. And so
we saw the air. I think it is all light at the end, but only

because it has nothing to do with us, can do nothing for us,
can only light us up the way it lights up a stand of trees,

an empty highway, a bed at sunup, rumpled on a lover’s way out.
I think it is all light, because we go bright, then dark,

then bright again, whether we mark its happening
or don’t. Because we don’t. Cannot.

Robin Myers, “Light”