Doug Palmer's poem feels like a small chant about starting again. It opens with a sense of return, of people turning back toward something and leaning into "the way," though the language is deliberately knotty. Lines like "the fast is longing" and "the light of cast foreshadows all else" don't resolve into easy sense, so the reader has to sit with them the way you would with a half-remembered dream.
The one line that keeps coming back is "There isn't enough light until we bring ourselves." It appears three times, and each time it sounds more like a conviction. The idea seems to be that the world alone isn't enough to see by; people have to add something of their own. The speaker also urges, "Say it only once, that you may know," which is curious in a poem that repeats itself so much. The mood is hushed and searching, almost prayerful, especially in the image of standing in the wind and kneeling. It feels humble, but also quietly hopeful.