naming the darkness is finding a kind of light
When a dying light bulb pops there is a puff and hiss, and lingering odour of ozone, reminiscent of something spent. Call it the scent of metallic carrion.
I wonder about the flash, and rush of air that catches fire on a hot filament, severing the coil that lit but did not burn. Call it a burning bush in a bulb.
I imagine ancestral wonder, abutting the marvels of nature, saw no edge in human grasp, by calling it magic or miracle. Call it control by making a label.
Such was the task in the garden, to give name, to give existence in language for earthly wonders. And so we have wandered little from garden path to the myth of a dying light bulb.
