No matter;
none at all.
All light,
waves of light.
Hostas along the walk,
light; cat sleeping on the couch,
light.  Every last particle of this house,
light.  Even the dark
releases light the longer
I stare into it, and though
I’m no beacon myself
I am light still, dim at times,
blazing at others.  Every matter
I’ve lent weight and mass and density to
is light, only light turning
back into the light I am,
and while I may forget this,
I do not cease shining.