Arise, and look at
the vague light
in the trees.
It is exactly what you can’t pinpoint,
won’t focus
to sharp intensity.
It is warmth
in a pine wreath
surrounded by a red door
in a mist of rain.
It is an ambiguous
thrust at a naked ideal
carrying forks and spoons
shining and silver and clean.
Rhythmically original,
at the heart of the open arms
of a bulky sweater
arms and keys and flour and lint
get lost in,
especially when putting cookies
into an oven.
Your cheeks are pink
but your eyes almost liquid,
glisten.
Anything that shines
is placed in the branches;
ornaments, glass shards,
plastic candy wrappers,
and you and I,
even bundled under thick clouds,
you and I stand among the branches
lighting the dismal,
lighting the first candles
at the end of the year.
