Shape and Substance

It is early yet

It is early yet,
daylight a distant music,
dream that was and might yet be,
pendulum between antipodes
of night.

It is early yet,
Cold-sharp wind excises
necrotic yesterday. Tomorrow bleeds its way
to birth, newborn and squalling,
a day.

It is early yet
to divine the way
to limn the shape of pleasure, pain,
to hear the melody of fear or faith, and so
I hope.

Dawn

The slow diminuendo of the dark
begrudges its retreat ere grows the dawn;
while playing at the edges of the night
a cold grey light, at first more hint than song.

Come, daystar, swell to bright crescendo,
echo the rhythmic pulse of ancient way,
as darkness cedes to scarce imagined morning
its load of ache, its hope for coming day.

The Question of the Sun

Cling you to the night?
There is shelter in the comforts of the dark,
where vision dims, and slumber’s anesthesia
slows the beat of pain in mind or heart.

Let go. Release the night. Let go.
These ancient rhythms you will not gainsay.
Dawn’s rays bring even Morpheus to his knees.
Leave darkness to the dead, and greet the day.

And Comes the Sun

Look!
Grey silhouettes the dark horizon,
presses on the borders of the morning;
with each moment bolder comes a-borning
new light, new possibilities arising.
Brighter: from each rosy-fingered ray
emerges urgent orange and vermillion
until reluctant clouds dilate, unwilling,
and night gives birth to glory. Soon the day.

Sing!
Join hawks and doves and sparrows;
toll the ancient tune, song of Helios.
Approaches now the chariot of Eos.
No reticence, no comfort left in shadow.

Awake!
The Wheel has turned another turn,
And we? We are the stowaways who borrow
this vessel of tomorrow and tomorrow…
See! It is the dawn, and comes the Sun.