STILL DANCING

Somewhere in sun wet
forests or dense coastal woods
pierced with the flame
of distant water the light
is always dancing with
his lover always disappearing

into her like a swan
entering the depths
of some timeless lake
his white wings vanishing
beneath her dark body

It is summer I take
the wood path by the lake
Light is falling through
a lattice of branches Behind
the trees is a clearing
with a house It has been
there forever and the man
in the red shirt cutting wood

has been there too trapped
in the embrace of light
and darkness I know this
because I too am seduced by
light waiting like a child at
the windows of lit houses
for a point of entry
into the dance Wherever

light and shadow meet
there is a mystery
that contains all others It
is always quiet there
and timeless the moment
of becoming invisible

Passion is there a stilled
passion without haste all
wanting suspended Where he
stands cutting wood the light
about his shoulders enclosed
in a funnel of brightness

—even as his arms count air
like the hands of a living
clock—he is perched on
the edge of knowing held
by rhythms beyond the reach

of human voices I know
that while they dance
he cannot move But
of course I am the one
who has been there forever