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.