33 Readings | 0 Ratings

3.15

The sun can’t make up its mind, punching through

morning mist, setting fields abuzz.

Then wrapping into itself, clouds winding

into great spirals, overtaking the sky.

I am overcome with seasons,

with weather, with whether this hour

you’ll receive me into your hands,

your eyes. Into your hands I give my light,

faltering songs I barely manage, voice

cracking on the edge of dawn.

All the grasses wet and heavy with hope—

the illusion of beginning anew. We’re complicit,

but we’ll take it on the off-chance

that as the sun sweeps through,

the glittering golden field, transmogrified,

breaks into hundreds of orioles, ascendant

and carrying our hidden song to light.

Gold breaking forth, unbidden,

your warmth to me finally certain.

Posted 03/15/19
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