Poetry | After He Died

There is something of him

In the sudden blinding sunshine

And in the courage of notes

That begin a rebel's song.

There is something of him

In the dusk stilled forest

And the flashing rainbow

Foams above the ocean.

There is something of him

In the black beat of a bird

And the sweeping hand

Across a rediscovered map.

He is in the hunter’s held-breath-step,

And the swelling terror of the prey.

He is all the holy shadows

Of the world and every crack -

Oh, all the falling light.