There is light like summer
whose sum we receive.
There is goldenweave.
A humming,
cicadas lost at dark
by our river water.
Here the light
shines on itself,
creating gold,
inward and drawn.
Sometimes
we are given
illuminates as whips.
We are infants.
We don't
know
anyway.
We are drowsy,
the light!
We wait to change
with sleep.
- Joy Misra
