The Golden Mean

The light looks best in mornings,
and perhaps it’s because
my eyes haven’t yet adjusted
completely to the day
and my mind has yet to wrap
itself around comprehension
and so instead, I find myself
immersed in it; the light,
like a warm bath you’ve just
run for me and now sit on the side
and ask about the depth
of the bow at my upper lip,
as though you’ve always loved it,
and I have to wonder now,
if upon first sight, did your eyes
take measurements; of height,
depth, and width, and did you find
among it, the golden mean? For
is that not what this light feels like
in mornings? Immersed in all this
glowing, warm familiarity.

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