I pause and breathless gasp at stars
which loose ten thousand brilliant shafts
through narrowed iris, fluoresce cones.

Though arctic air cannot be warmed
by radiant sun which flects off snow,
sweat seeps its way ’round goggled lens

as aloed zinc secures my skin;
and still my soul has no defense
against these constellated rays.

A light, ’tis said, is ne’er as bright
as in the deepest dark of night;
yet proverbs poorly refract truth.

About Greg Wright

I have worn many hats as a writer and editor over the years. Unlike my scholarly and journalistic work from the "old days" at Hollywood Jesus, Past the Popcorn, or SeaTac Blog, the writing here is of a more overtly personal and spiritual nature. I hope it provokes you as much as it provokes me.
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