Mom loves lighthouses.

 
Spires of pale stone,
rippled rainbow lenses
that direct light
into a single beam,
a spotlight in which
a ship can dance — .
 
Did you know?
Every lighthouse 
has a pattern
of spark and color,
code to indicate
which land is home — and
 
I know Mom’s so well.
Every flash, every flicker,
every pulse, every beat,
is the physics of refuge.
It’s a lull of light, a pull,
promising HERE IS HARBOR,
the one I know best — except did
 
you know?
Lighthouses line shorelines,
those borders
of crag and boulder,
their placement is no accident,
this is where not to sail —