The Edge of Visible Light

Preston Grassmann

I still remember 
         the way the sunlight 
                 opened through the glass, 
                      turning through your carvings 
                               like the petals of winter flowers. 
                                      Long before I could ever know                                                         
                                           the language of your light, 
                                          you would read to me out loud, 
                                    and I would wonder 
                               how colors could form  
                        into ideas and dreams.  
                 I studied your words 
            when you were gone, 
      because that was everything 
I had of your world. 
     When the stories of your life
                      would open around me, 
                           I would imagine 
                                how far and long 
                                     the light had traveled, 
                                            to finally flower 
                                                        into the patterns 
                                                                you had made, 
                                                                        a part of you there
                                                                  in the word forms 
                                                             you had carved for us.  
                                                       I would ask father 
                                                 about those stories  
                                           but it was painful 
                                     to watch his eyes 
                              turn through memories
                         I could never share, 
                   Iris in winter blue  
             as if they too were books 
         made by you, 
      tear-shaped prisms   
turning in your light.  
     And so I learned how to read  
            the angles of refraction 
                 and decided to go 
                       to the edge of Indigo.
                          I could feel the sun 
                               through the castle walls                                            
                                      and passing each tower, 
                                               arranged in the order                                                                           
                                                        of their colors,                                                                                                     
                                                               I finally reached 
                                                                      the edge of visible light,                         
                                                                                  where all the epitaphs 
                                                                                        shone through its crystals                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
                                                                                            into puzzles of meaning  
                                                                                    leading to some center. 
                                                                         The other towers seemed 
                                                                so much smaller then, 
                                                      as if Indigo contained worlds 
                                             and I read the other names 
                                       of those who had passed                      
                               from the visible world, 
                      until I reached yours. 
             And when I saw it there, 
      I thought of how far 
it had traveled                         
          from the heart of the sun
                to arrive at that moment, 
                      to fill the room 
                            and refract through me
                                  like winter-flowering iris
                                         this living prism of your stories,                                     
                                               and that was when I knew 
                                                   that I would become a carver like you, 
                                                         because I could feel 
                                                                 how much I have been shaped 
                                                                       by you and your words
                                                                             filled with the light 
                                                                                   and meaning you gave me.  
                                                                                          This is my very first crystal, 
                                                                                                and though I am still learning 
                                                                                               how to turn light into stories
                                                                                           I hope that one day,
                                                                                       these ideas and dreams   
                                                                                    will reach you. 
                                                                                 Love,
                                                                           Clarity

 

 

“The Edge of Visible Light” first appeared in Mythic Delirium, Issue 29, Summer/Fall 2013.
“The Edge of Visible Light” copyright © 2011 by Preston Grassmann. This poem may not be reproduced in any form without the author’s express written permission.