The Cutting-beam

Imagine this blur of chill, white, gray, vague, sadness
burned off.
Imagine a landscape
of dry clear sunlight, precise shadows,
forms of pure color.
Imagine two neighboring hills, and
your house, my house, looking across, friendly:
imagine ourselves
meeting each other,
bringing gifts, bringing news.
Yes, we need the heat
of imagination’s sun
to cut through our bonds of cloud.
And oh, can the great and golden light
warm our flesh that has grown so cold?

– Denise Levertov