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Memory 

The light box is a friend this far north in autumn and winter, and even shockingly into spring, and if I’m honest, once, up to the edges of summer.

Its brightness vanquishes blackness and shadow, lights me up in a neon-sign-above-the-highway kind of way, even though birds chirp outside the window, and a light-gray glow of dawn is lifting the edges of horizon as if to say, here—come outside!

Maybe the bright fresh twists of air carrying their stories of the morning—maybe the dawning sky would be enough, would soon shine brighter than light in a box, would remind us all that in some ancient era we once filled the sky with our fluttering wings that took us high onto brightening branches, then low, down to shrubs caressing the shadowed ground, where to our delight, moist seeds lay waiting and open.

Leave the couch, the coffee, your fuzzy robe and blinding box behind, and enter here—slipping on your gray wings—into that primeval memory where you were as light and carefree and hungry as this rising day.