I want a more organic light,
something with a spark of creation in it,
instead of empty neon and sodium and fluorine.
I want something with actual warmth to it,
something that if I hold my hands up close,
I can see the life through my skin
and feel the heat and risk of beginnings.
I want a more organic light
that I can burn away this painful and soiled year just past,
reduce it to ash and mix it
with the mud of basic beginnings,
and hope that next year grows healthy and,
if not straight,
then at least stronger and able to reach.
I want a light that flatters,
with room for embellishment and hints.
The longest night, that cold and dark time,
presses upon me, stifles my thoughts,
does not steal my breath but steals instead
the energy of why to breathe.
Such daylight as there is now is flat,
filtered and unsatisfying,
tasting of cold and smelling of wet and sounding of distance.
So on this day I create a spark,
divine miniature danger,
and set a lick of flame to waxed string.
To nudge away the drear,
to find the strength to stand another day,
I want a more organic light.

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