The skin of the dark

The light in the November morning mingles 
closely with the night. It struggles to shed the 
skin of the dark. It stills me these days,
the dread of it gone, 
this underworld, this shadow, this journey
inward to some kind of light.
And the understanding is different in this place,
without the glare of summer's publicity.
Here I can be quiet.
No flashlights, no paparazzi of false revelation
but a turning inwards,
a beginning of a level of depth of insight, with the night
touched by a pencil of light on a softer skin.