The Light in Your Eyes
The
light burned
in
your eyes,
flickered
for years.
Winds
came. The Flame
bent,
leaned sidewards,
straightened
itself,
burned
brightly for
all
of those days
all
of those nights.
The
bed grew larger
Your
body felt
small
to you,
yet
the light,
the
bright light
in
your eyes
burned
for me.
At
Christmas,
in
the windows
all
the candles
burn
for me.
Come
home.
It
is Christmas,
even
in July.
Some fine poems work because of their specificity, some their generality. This is one of the latter. The details are concrete, not vague, the images are strong and strongly stated, but, still, the reader does not know who the "you" is. An aging, perhaps departed, mother? A wife or similar loved one? Is "you" still present, or only in memory? The way we answer these questions shapes our response as readers.
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