The Speed of Light

1 Minute Read Time

A square of light coming in through a window and casting shadows of plants on to a wall. A shelf with dried flowers and books is mounted on the wall. — Photo by Ashe Walker on Unsplash

Inside, late afternoon sun passing
through the window, I follow
a circle of light that darts on the ceiling
when I move my arm, my watch’s glass
its origin. When I hold my arm still,
my dead son comes to light,
as if each one of my days still lives
at a distance, but a distance
that can be traveled at the speed of light
when I least expect it. Without any effort
on my part, the weight of time
becomes as weightless as the light
on the ceiling. And my son and I are
together again on his back porch.
He has turned his face towards me
in the watery late afternoon sun
and the light magnifies the green
of his eyes, and behind him,
the greens of a few shaggy pines.
A white hydrangea, past blossoming,
is streaked with October’s reds
and purples. If we cut some
of the flowered cones and place them
in a vase without water,
they would remain that way
for months. But we just sit in the sun,
not talking, the space between us
allowing us to be both apart and together.

Robert Cording

has published ten collections of poems, most recently In the Unwalled City (Slant, 2022), and a book of poetry criticism, Finding the World’s Fullness (Slant, 2019). Recent poems have appeared in publications such as The Southern Review, The Hudson Review, The Common, and The Best American Poetry and Pushcart Prize anthologies.

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