You have always stood beneath a dazzling
array of bright colors.
Brilliant, and brave, and blinding.
Your light provided bright reflections
and lit the stage upon which you danced;
careless, joyful, and exuberant.
It was a separate light that bathed me,
not quite so radiant and full of shadows.
It has never illuminated my way
nor has it warmed me in its beam.
It was what it seemed: an insignificant
blue glow, dim and misleading.
In your light, you were found. In mine,
everything was lost.
The Winter Bites My Bones 
This is the power of poetry. I can read the poem and apply it to so many episodes in my life, and it’s not about me.
I immediately read it as a metaphor for my feelings about Hitchens. An Ode to him.
And of course it has nothing to do with him. Thank you!
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Thanks, Rachel. I needed to hear that as I am going through a lot of doubt about my writing prowess.
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Your poetry manages to state in one simple line a life’s story. The reader (in this case, me) can impose their own interpretations, becasue it is so universal and deeply felt.
Don’t doubt. Van Gogh became famous after his death, and don’t chop off your ear:)
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Poignant
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