The Single Ray Of Light

By Ken Woodley

A single ray of light

flickers its way through a small, thin crack

in the asphalt sky

where darkness paved over heaven,

a ray of light so small and seemingly insignificant—

like a blade of grass

rising through a fissure

in the city’s sidewalk maze—

that the darkness ignores it entirely,

disregards the flickering twinkle

that has come to find us,

to answer our prayer,

here

where we have been walking and stumbling 

and rising

and falling 

and rising again

through seasons of ourselves 

that lost all of their leaves

and then budded all over again,

spiritual springs

following every winter of our soul.

We stand on the tips of our toes.

We jump up and down,

arms upraised,

trying to touch

even the shadows of this single ray of light,

if only for the heartbeat of a moment,

because that would be enough

to reach the other side

of everything that tells us 

there is no other side of anything.

Suddenly, the single ray of light

takes this darkness by surprise,

blooming

into a garden of rainbows,

shimmering hues that look like the music of wind chimes,

and then

—somehow, some way—

we blossom, too,

like bouquets pulled from a magician’s hat,

astonished

that all of these colors are part of us,

embracing us,

loving us all

as the darkness opens its eyes

too late to pave over the small, thin crack

that has now widened into an eternity

where darkness is only the handful of hours,

and then just the small, thin moment,

right before dawn.

By Ken Woodley

A single ray of light
flickers its way through a small, thin crack
in the asphalt sky
where darkness paved over heaven,
a ray of light so small and seemingly insignificant—
like a blade of grass
rising through a fissure
in the city’s sidewalk maze—
that the darkness ignores it entirely,
disregards the flickering twinkle
that has come to find us,
to answer our prayer,
here
where we have been walking and stumbling
and rising
and falling
and rising again
through seasons of ourselves
that lost all of their leaves
and then budded all over again,
spiritual springs
following every winter of our soul.
We stand on the tips of our toes.
We jump up and down,
arms upraised,
trying to touch
even the shadows of this single ray of light,
if only for the heartbeat of a moment,
because that would be enough
to reach the other side
of everything that tells us
there is no other side of anything.
Suddenly, the single ray of light
takes this darkness by surprise,
blooming
into a garden of rainbows,
shimmering hues that look like the music of wind chimes,
and then
—somehow, some way—
we blossom, too,
like bouquets pulled from a magician’s hat,
astonished
that all of these colors are part of us,
embracing us,
loving us all
as the darkness opens its eyes
too late to pave over the small, thin crack
that has now widened into an eternity
where darkness is only the handful of hours,
and then just the small, thin moment,
right before dawn.

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