A Light Poem

Beginning again, like children just learning how--
heads tilt to squint and consider.
Will there be more grace arriving?
The bridge of the moment sways as we speak.

I like your look of tenderness, here and gone.
Light feels delicious, a place that smells of cedar.
Beeswax, clementines, papier-mache
and all of the wonderful things we made!

I'm awake with mirth and laughter--I'm talking.
Shiva grins. "Talk to the hands."
Can I make that light permanent?
I am living for the last time.

She'll paint The Red Poppy again;
The poet is not dead.