At night,
water is light.
At noon,
light becomes stone.
Everything that is made
is light, is shade.
Abroad in the fields, we bathe
in light, drink light, breathe
light with our mouths. Are still.
Light has entered the hill;
the sands
hold light in their hands.
Earth is unsure, wavers, is fluid, flight;
there is nothing certain in sight
but light.
William Ashworth is an author, composer, retired librarian, and a member and former clerk of South Mountain Friends Meeting in Ashland, Oregon.