Abigail Leigh

the language of the sun

Some like to bully the English language.

Their complaint:

there is

too many twin-sounding words used 

to mean

two un-identical things.

I don’t believe it’s a coincidence

that when the mouth speaks of the light

of the world:

“sun” and “son”

roll off its tongue the same—

and to an ear’s embrace, either

rounded sound 

rings with the resonance of both

presence and grace.

God, I cannot see you 

but when I feel the warm

sun

rise cradling my face: I look up

and the same love that sent me your

son

burns brazen across the sky, burning

in my heart—

you’re there, God 

you are

here.

Abigail Leigh is a 28 year-old harpist and poet from Oregon. As a self-proclaimed paradox, both a creative and analytical being, she draws inspiration from life's dichotomies: the belief that light and darkness, growth and decay, and joy and sorrow travel in tandem. Every season has a story to tell, and she writes because she is committed to unveiling the truth from learned experiences. Her poetry has been published in Darling Magazine, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Equinox Biannual Journal, Clayjar Review, Foreshadow Magazine, Kosmeo Magazine, Yours Poetically, and Wingless Dreamer Publisher (Winner of their winter poetry contest and their poetry on life contest.)