Watching night turn to day—a thing that should be gradual, but instead proceeds by small leaps of realization: “It’s lighter now!” Rain.



    Rhythms define our movements here
    before we arrive at still points we find
    are quaint leaps of quiet epiphanies:

    sundowns are sunrises like crashing
    waves ebb, nights are days shorn of
    nightmares, screams of pain a lullaby.

    I see these circles twirl and ask: why?
    Is darkness known only through light?
    Fierce love through utter loneliness?

    Why must a bright day be rained on?
    How does life go from death to living?
    Lest one dies to oneself, he is not alive.

    When the rhythm ceases on a still point,
    do movements move toward an end?
    Where is my end when I have not begun?

    —Albert B. Casuga

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