The Changing Light

The Changing Light

Last night I saw the changing light
pink-luster like the inside of a conch shell
            hauled from the beach, collecting time
            its shell crystals primordial dust--
perhaps the last gasp of a dying galaxy,
small pinpricks of ancient light 
flowing like water carving the hillsides
behind Mt. Tam.

I stood and watched the clouds of Marin,
moving methodically over the hills,
            like a medieval scholar scouring the heavens.
I could see across the bay, find my rooftop,
touch the tips of my tallest redwood trees, spot
my cat playing with a fallen baby squirrel. 

I saw the light change to deep crimson at the 
horizon, soft purple bands melting silhouettes
sharpening my gaze on the fog-blanketed Headlands,
lights from the red bridge haloed across Sausalito
motioning me back to the last waning light above,
the first stars stitched onto blue-black tapestry
like primitive beacons, signaling me home.

 
Kathleen Meadows

Kathleen Meadows was born in Bakersfield, California, and grew up in the rural San Joaquin Valley. She holds degrees from UC Santa Barbara and UC Berkeley in English and has taught in schools throughout the Bay Area. Since retiring, Kathleen has studied poetry at the Writing Salon in San Francisco with Kathleen McClung and at Berkeley City College. She lives in the El Cerrito hills, her backyard a grove of redwood trees overlooking the San Francisco Bay and Mt. Tamalpais.