My son's shadow stretches out
from where he stands praying
at the edge of the pool of light
cast by the evening lamp.
Swaying gently, his shadow leans
toward the compact book he holds
firmly in his hands.
He does not see me where I sit
rocking on the porch
to the rhythm of his voice
that clarifies the deepening dark.
It is enough that I see his shadow stretch
across the floor and up the wall
to the ceiling and beyond
from When the Light Falls Short of the Dream
(1998); reprinted in
Make Your Way Across This Bridge: New & Selected Writings