Cameron Morse: Literal Light

Heat of the lit
leaves warms the wayward

side of my head. Light is
not a metaphor.

I am the seeing
eye only on a morning

in November
sun glistens like a tongue

licking the blacktop, slicking back
the cowlicks of leaves.

Mother Moisture, Father Heat,
who instilled a mind in me
to think these things?

Who is the wellspring
of my eyes

stretched open unto morning?
My mind, one step

at a time, word by word