Emily Dickinson says in her poem: There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons – That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes – Although I admire Dickinson’s work, I react to slants of light in the opposite way. In the gray stand of hardwoods behind my house, on certain days of the winter, one ray of sun will pierce the overlapping branches and strike against the trunk of a far tree. It is lit then as if it were the sacred stone struck by sunlight on the solstice, and my heart is lit, too, with the vibrancy of interaction,…