He Sat in the Light

By Cynthia Dorfman

PROMPT—Never will I forget ...

He sat in the light.

There was a Monet-

luminescence about him.

Light on the surface trembling,

catching the transient moment.

Light through the pane shed

white on the carpet,

not to be swept

by the sweep of the brush,

but kept for the lovely of it.

At the corner of his pain

he swept cobwebs with his palm

from the edge of the sill,

those woven to snatch

the beams at the window.

They say rose diamonds

catch candle sparklings

in the night of light-silence

in the glow of tallow.

He always sat in the light,

captured the moonlight

transcendent, even in evenings

as his spark was ebbing,

drawn to the gleam

like a moth to a flame.

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Cynthia Dorfman's poem is written to remember her late husband. She writes poetry based on visual images. Her recent work has appeared in Ekphrastic Review, Moss Piglet and Bramble, the literary magazine of the Wisconsine Fellowship of Poets. Cynthia writes from Rockville, MD.