Light

What I think of as Light
is nothing but a reflection.

The beacon's halo is so admirable 

from a distance,
so seemingly pure.
The light on someone's face,
making them shine in your sky,
is but energy from another source
bouncing back at you.

Light.

We hold it up,
are drawn to it,
follow it,
seek its source.

But we can't ever see the Light itself;
the surroundings it illuminates
are the proverbial trees obstructing the forest.

Stars shining on the stillness of the Bay at night
show only themselves against a smooth surface,
obscuring the life brimming beneath it.

I can't see the Light.
I can only see the things basking in it.