By Claudia Ricci
Maybe because so many late
winter days are white and overcast,
the dawn of a clear sunny
morning brings a thrill.
No matter that there is
still frigid air biting your skin if you step outside.
No matter that the sun may
not last past noon.
It's still a gift to open
your eyes to see the pine-treed hillside outside the window
turning gold in long lazy rays.
Downstairs, the sun
streams across the kitchen, bathing the
cabinets orange. The same
rays cross the threshold into the laundry room and leave a tiny square of
spring green light on the washing machine.
I set my finger into that
delightful green spot.
It's got promise, that
spot.
The fruitbowl, with its
orange, green and yellow curves and shadows, becomes a still life painting.
And in the dining room,
the long strips of light spread across the rug beckon to me.
I stretch out flat in one,
as if I'm lying in a chaise lounge on the beach.
I stare right into the
flood of sunlight coming through the window
and I am delighted to be
blinded. I smile. I think Florida, I think emerald waves and long white
beaches. Palm trees and the smell of ocean breezes. Bathing suits. Flip flops
and suntan lotion and the grainy touch of sand.
Maybe because this
morning's light is so rare, and I know there is no holding onto it,
(just now the sun slipped
behind the clouds and all turned shadow)
Every place my glances
happens to land -- on deeply furrowed grey bark, on the white pond, on green
pine needles --
I let my gaze dally.
The day becomes a
meditation, eyes feeding on light.