Fall 1983 • Vol. V No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1983 |

White Light

Waiting in a place where the cicadas turn the silence into something silver. Hot white light on the rocks. Laurel down by the spring. Holding myself still. Doing one thing at a time. Drink water, burn paper, wash floor. The sun making me lower my eyes to see when I am outdoors. View of water far below. Town far below by the water. Stone walls and trails. I write this on what the cicadas have accomplished.

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