The Light In My Kitchen

The light in my kitchen
comes
whether I deserve it
or not.
In the morning
it lifts
through the eastern frame
of my bay window,
ebbs out
night's mystery
with
a pastel wash,
and crests
white fire
above Providence Bank
(prosaic, but true.)

In these winter afternoons
(so early)
it falls yellow
along
the door and the curtains
and
the honey-colored boards
which need to be swept,
and drops
in a triangle
of orange glory
between
the tall garages and
the trees.