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What The Light Finds

What The Light Finds

At the back of the drawer
a single glove
holding its shape
like it remembers a hand.
The receipt from a hardware store
faded to the color of dust.
Three keys on a ring.
One is worn smooth, its teeth dulled.
Outside, snow loosens from the branches
in soft collapses.
The bird feeder swings and swings
but nothing lands.
On the counter, a bowl with a hairline crack
still fills with oranges.
One has split its skin
just enough to smell like winter sun.
In the window, a plant leans
toward a brightness it does not understand.
At four in the afternoon
the room becomes briefly gold.
Light reaches even the back corners,
touches the drawer, the bowl, the quiet air.

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