The Pen of a Ready Writer

Meditations from an East-Facing Window

How do I know?

Well,

How do I know a rock is firm?

How do I know a father is tender?

How do I know a word is good?

How do I know the sky speaks?

How do I know I am not ashamed?

How do I know what a song should be about?

How do I know to cry at birth?

How do I know which way is forward?

How do I know a kindness when it lands?

How do I know children’s children are life’s crown?

How do I know violet or bottle-green?

How do I know the sun will rise?

How do I know to inhale?

How do you not know?

Camille Mary Kaufmann, 2/2/23 To God Be The Glory

Sky is both diffuser

And its own prismatic piece.

Its job is Light,

Which goes and flows,

And touches here and there,

On bended frond or purling wake,

Or jalousie’s a-line skirt.

Receiving Light,

That little thing – the branch, the wave, the pane –

Lobs it fracteled left and right

Improbably to find

Corners still in westward gloam,

Walls facing yesterday.

A watcher looking east,

Seeing silhouette afire,

Bows at Light that seeks and finds

And rides on little things,

Surprising Light, physics’ star,

A Law unto Itself.