Winter Light

It would be enough
to know the grass is still
green here in the subtropics
and that the oranges,
flushed and sweet on their stems,
hang like ornaments in the trees.
But it’s the winter light
that is most alive — 
its low notes, resonant, crafted
into auras that make us look sacred,
like the palmettos and the robins,
the ice cubes in your tall glass.
Did I mention the temperature
is perfectly clear and even the gray moss
in the trees is backlit with extravagance?
Oh, spinning planet, hold us still
long enough to let this light saturate
our marrows, to mesmerize us
like the glow of a distant celebration.
Pinks razoring the windowpanes.
Hibiscus, a burning quick on our tongues.