I write, too often, of interiors.
Dark, with a leaking of light through windows.
It is not a healthy thing.
But at times, those glimpses of light
were all I had. Even if
they seemed unattainable,
even if I was afraid of the light
and the scars it would show.
Now I write of that darkness in memory
and gratitude, for the fear led to discovery,
and the discovery to restoration
in steps so small, I did not even know I was moving
until suddenly, I was outside. In the light,
an escaped prisoner of my own darkness,
able to wear my scars, if not with pride,
at least with the understanding of their art.
About this poem.
Sometimes I write with no idea what I am writing about, until the last line. Don’t tell any one.
One of the things I am missing in this time of quarantine, is taking pictures inside of old homes and museums, both of which I love, and both of which I love to photograph. I am hoping my collection of images holds up until we can visit such places again.