His hands are rough because he works with light.
Bending and twisting he pushes it in–
into black spaces wrought of iron and dust.
He hopes to illuminate the shadows,
maybe push back the dark.
Her hands are soft because all she knows is light.
Her dog, her toy, her mother–
everything is warm, sun-made, bright.
Reflecting, it bounces off the lens of her eye,
twinkling, she’s like starlight in the dead of night.
-Jessica Sneeringer, 2016