In some lights

Even the darkest wakenings
are another piece of the road, `
though steps drag
beneath the weight of the heavy pall
of dim winter light light.

Pain is relative to absence of pain,
and when is that?
There are only instants of illumination
like the bright flash of wings,
gone, elusive as feathers,
as final words snatched away by the wind.

I watch and listen where night drips.
For the break in the clouds.

Even the dark has an end,
in the rising of the sun, even unseen,
beneath the dripping trees,
and even in the darkest of mornings,
the birds sing.