_ coming to the cushion
i turn my face
toward the light
feel it like wind,
feel photons streaming
washing over me

cobwebs of habit and pattern
untwine
disentangle
fall & spin lazily away

random knots of fluff
the detritus of dead appointments
and unborn obligation
exposed
shake and scatter
spiral behind

bright reflective flecks of thought
this phrase; that task
tremble
detach
are carried off

_i feel clean
red-cheeked
gently scoured and yet
the light does not dim
the force does not lessen

as pore by pore & cell by cell
sullied solid skin and bone
dissolve
a swelling urge to cry out
stings, swells madly
bursts

light
shining, shining
in its wake, leaving only
simply…
light

and a song
rung out in angstroms:
arise;
arise, and shine