I’ve tried to live
by so many lights
not my own—
electric, fluorescent,
comfortless, wan
or the glare of high noon
in high summer—
none of them native to me
or very illuminating.
Too much, too little
or just false.

But your light—
a beaming pearl
enfolded in
the deepest indigo.
A window, a portal
a mystery, a mood.
The clearest sign yet
of belonging.
You speak
to the space
in my belly
that swirls
with knowing.
I’m in your hands, 
Mother Moon.

I see
how you turn the snow
silver-blue. Paint me
with the same.
Make a bowl of light
below the ribs
above the womb
and teach me
to fill it
with stillness.

See me spill you
my birthright.