The language of light

The sewing needle I thread to fix

my boy’s belt loop 

drops from my fingers and 

vanishes

into the beige bathroom rug, 

impossible to find until 

I flick on the ceiling lamp and

instantly 

a silver streak lights up that needle 

like a stage spotlight.

I have learned that light consists 

of tiny photons, each one racing off

in every direction

forever

and each one holds a record 

of where it’s been, like a  postcard stamped

with the return address of a star or a moon

or a ceiling lamp

that my eyes read in a language 

I don’t know I know

and suddenly—needle…. there.

A miracle the universe sends

messages all the time, telling me

Look, this is what’s here, 

this is what’s real,

this is what you belong to.

The real miracle though isn’t the light

but that there’s a me

to surmise the wink on the floor.