Joy in the stroke of your brush.

Truth in the carve of your stylus.

Delight in a sapphire red,

hyacinth blue,

willowing green.

The thrum in your chest

as your hand draws a path

to your innermost eye.

That is love,

That is the Light.

But if you knew not

the bleak hues of

ink, night, and shadow –

the colors of absence,

of empty, of hollow –  

How would you ever

hope to perceive the

the bright of indigo,

the warmth of rosewood,

the fire of vermilion?

What I now know is:

The Light is within.

It is love.

And darkness only

quickens our pulse to feel it.