Rembrandt, "Self-Portrait, 1639"
       

I heard this from the stars; it must be true:
that out of light can come most anything.
Winter, mid-afternoon, waiting for night,
I look up: nothing there-clouds in movement
so slow, so indescribably not alone
they are a tedious portent of my hope,
that sign I'm waiting for, which always comes—

Rembrandt, I come to you to know that light,
not to find it; the finding has been done.
When I am drawn in deep, down through your eyes
to enter, your face fixed on mine, shining—
I am no one, one now with radiance.
I turn off asking why we have come here.
You've chosen me, and, for now, that's enough—

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Copyright © 2012 Peter Cooley All rights reserved
from New Letters
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission