White

by Harry Lang

You change me
the way rain changes music,
like the sky changes a room far from light.
When years are mirrored,
sifting dust into our starry night,
when decisions close and close
to burn upon the smallest of questions
you answer with fingers
washed white in moons of May,
repeating the ageless patient refrain,
the rebuke of the purest air beyond storms,
the joy of sun upon the blind.