Thin morning air,
lemon-colored
light,
Helios’
delight:
Stellar
gray of dawn
takes
wing with geese
who
trumpet the day.
Breezes
shiver leaves,
aroused
for diurnal play
of
shading mortals
from
the fierceness
of
his reign.
Yet
Apollo’s light filters through
with
dapples of truth.
We
dare not know omniscience.
Blinded
we continue,
passing
from nocturnal songs
to
the burnishing of dirges—
wondering
which way the
wind
will spin us into
webs
thrown out merely,
yet
with no little weight; we
knock
on wood,
cross
our fingers,
cross
our hearts,
sing
praises to the heights,
and
wait for all surprises
lingering
in the air—
set
to stagger or amaze us,
to
take the wind or
fill
our sails.
We
tremble and pause
to
catch our breaths.
31
May 2011
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