Paper Birches

There are white birches on the west side of my building. On a clear afternoon, the west sides of the slender trunks blaze with sunlight; the east sides glow with soft light reflected from the building windows. There is no darkness around these trees. Moss will never grow on them.

I hold up a sheet of paper and it kindles bright on both sides.

I hold up a poem and one side is lit by reflection from the faces of listeners. The other side is brilliant with divine radiance. In this transaction I illuminate nothing. My fingerprint on the paper is only a shadow. The poem is a white birch.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside