Belief It is out there, light polishing the field, turning the long blades not green, not gold; but a necklace of these hues, a perishing bridge of angles and distance-- so that we must be in a kind od spell while we live; how light effects this silvering, then spills into the relative dark.  Impossible being, what a strange metaphor; you glaze the entire world with light-- and what does that mean when we can't even see what it is we see by? The Poetry of Kate Knapp Johnson The Language Exchange The Campbell Corner Home Page