echoes in the light

Sitting at the table this morning and the sun is rising. Across the street the flaw in the glass of a window bevels the light back on itself. A magpie lands and suddenly, in the visible looking glass world, there are three magpies. Well four: the one I picture is above me on my rooftop but cannot see and its three reflections in the window opposite. Then the thought echo.
Every thing has its echo or two. In my room I am trying to grow a lemon tree from seed that echoes of Spain and the smell of its blossom as I cycled through sunshine orchards. The smell was an escape into fragrance and birdsong away from the kitchen table dramas. A solar eclipse into chilled silence.
There is a piece of art in my house that is about coming home from 16 months abroad and picking up a friendship I thought I'd lost. It is daft days and finding satellites among the stars and the possibility of transforming our little lives into Art, that capital 'a' all important.
There is a tablecloth that came from my honeymoon in Sri Lanka. Oh the memories of that time, and the thoughts of you and your love now out there leaving me with a picnic blanket without the feast.
These things -among the countless encounters in the light - echo in the cave of memory, of lived light. In the day's delight. Plato's shadow dance on the wall, and maybe that is all this life is: dancing with the shadows while there is enough light to shine.