On Light and Craft

The dark side of the mountain blocks
        your view of the sun.

And every night winds from the canyon
        blow sand in your mouth.

You wake thirsty from a dream
                     about wanting.

You didn’t move here to fall in love,
        but the idea of it is what draws you.

Searching for the sunset
                     catching moments of it

sticky clouds coming in from the west
              like cotton hair stuck

to the silver candy maker.
     The sweetest thing is sometimes imparted

through its absence.
                     So, like a sculptor

you set your eye to chisel
              that light down,

to a notch,
a gap,

a sparkling stone.

It takes great power not to look at it.