Ironic that the bright flame is so safe,
So warm, so shaded by such thick safe walls:
You cannot hoard your light! No close-
Pursed, tight-lipped crone can burn a candle only
For herself or shade that light so cleverly
As to keep soft extra lumps of light
In drawers and mattress holes for time vouchsafed.
But soft! What good is generosity?
Without a little tailoring and hems,
Quick cuts, light stitch, your good gift will not fit.
Spilling the rays of some small, weaker sun
Over the rim of some dark fearful world
Will make the worldlings run, not cheer.
Your conversation patters back and forth
Between miserly strife and donations
Not sensitively given. Where shall you go
From here, this place of sudden light and dark,
Where speakers think of shadows as themselves?
I love you for your readiness to try.