The Cenacle

Those days the sun was warm on my face,
Seeping, golden, through the window, curtains
Drawn back to welcome the light.
Those wooden floors were my world, dusty and cold,
But eager for the light, eager for that chance to shine
Again. And when that shaft would break free of clouds
And come streaming in, I would stand in it,
Feet bathed in warmth, wondering.
Was light composed of particles small enough to pass through glass?
And this light really here with me, in my world?
Perhaps, then, it could brighten my panes, glassy and dark
From the lonely winters – hopelessly dreaming
I step forward, countering despair, ready to be bathed
Head and foot, reach out to touch the glass,
But my hand, shocked by cold, shrinks back,
And my eyes refuse the light.