Profluent in Shifting Sunlight

The first language of the day
Is actually native
Tongue only to the mornings

Themselves, and no one human
Was ever indigenous
As a speaker of the sun.

You can’t even look at it!
You’ll never be profluent
In it, the way the rays shift,

Fingering every fabric,
Searching where they can enter,
Where they can only reflect,

Growing milky in cloudy
Rooms behind open curtains,
Later sprawling exhausted

Like fawns dappled in the grass.
But you can become fluent
As an eavesdropper at least,

New arrival to the light,
Watching its cartoons, noting
How it makes its gestures.

Don’t ask if you belong here.
Belonging’s not everything.
It’s worth the while, observing.