For a Woman Washing Vases

Having early found inside her chest an empty place,
She knows to fill with zest each empty space.

As a kid, she wanted to be pushed “higher, higher!”
In the arc of the backyard swing, she’d test the empty space.

While camping in the desert, she lets her dormant muscles
Warm with the rising sun.  Stretching is best in empty space.

An isolated butte, outcrop of rock above the level plain
Lures her upward to its crest—an empty space.

Even the streets of her home city offer grist.
The pigeon builds her nest in an empty space.

Vines cling to walls, weeds shoot through cracks,
The vagrant man finds rest in an empty space.

At home she gently washes vases stained by decaying stems
As if to cherish wholeness, not molest the empty space.

This writer, whose name means light, invokes the source
Of radiance, that words may fleetingly invest an empty space.

Published Poetry Midwest,
16 Spring/Summer, 2006
Pushcart Nominee, December, 2006.