In the Basement

On certain isolated, indifferent days

a bright bar of light will strike

clear across the basement.

Like Newgrange or Stonehenge, except

the basement’s not aligned with anything.

The light finds something to do.

It probes bundles of books, the white

washing machine, lingers over

Christmas bins, spots the wine

and LP’s, a swing set,

half-empty cans of Artisan Apple

and Pewter Blue, the last lapsed

décor idea, stored there in the dark.

Turning around, you notice the dull,

narrow window that allows light

to angle in just right, without warning,

an accident really because of how

the house sits oddly on its plot,

because of the drifting position of cloud,

because of sun, the season, and the trees.