We sat, stilled, your aura all that shined through Gaia; we snatched at the light, once given now taken — quicksilver.
We wanted to imagine stars mapped inside shiny scallop shells, trade Venus for the light that had lost its source in Athena’s storm.
We wished the sun’s cast of Hades booted from our memory and a squiggle of moon’s light to shadow our quiet remembering.
We waited for Apollo’s signal, his streak in the sky the end twice marked, and the light in our eyes to hold your going, sweetly, softly.
If we could feel how Aurora, even now paling, might warm our skins, we could store light deep, among myrtle wreaths, heart’s own guide.
We woke with the hawk’s cry rising, clouds clearing, roe deer grazing, then discovered too late how the light withheld brings rain.
But for the slant and the slipping through of shades let down we never would recall the way light fell on your brow that morning.
We watched the alchemy — electricity through Mercury, fluoresce, and spelled the fire of Hephaestus cooled, the light run through the flame, expired.
If not for the glare of regret, the stinging crook of loss Ares carried on dulled spear, we would fault the light dressing us down, before the darkness ever welcoming.
