When the angle of the sun is almost at its highest, and in the winter it's at a much lower level, the light enters the bedroom like a shaft of gold, dust motes floating and the carpet warming where the day falls inside.
It is almost a glare, almost blindingly bright...it's champagne colored and travels as a day moves outside, stirring past a variety of broken clouds that disrupt the lens and sometimes darken the room into grays and taupes.
It is a sweet reminder, this slight dawning and dimming, the aperture widening and drawing a full-throated spectacle of the color of air and an afternoon and a winter sun alighting upon my room. It is exquisite in the way you often entered, resplendent and incandescent, arriving like a full lost sun as you walked the small distance towards me...warming, beckoning, consuming my view as I drank in the air of you...and departing leaving behind grays and tones that remind me that the room is basically and essentially alone.
I wait by the window for your return.
No comments:
Post a Comment