Post by Reilley on Mar 5, 2011 11:11:38 GMT -6
Awaiting the sunrise takes some getting used to.
It is not for the faint of heart, the timid, or the love-lost.
This sort of thing, first thing in the morning
has been known to make grown men weep,
women lose control of their emotions (again)
and children take note of their surroundings.
It is yet too dark to see what I mean,
but you can spend this idle time
rubbing the sand from your eyes,
and preparing your metaphors.
How many ways do you know to say ‘quicksilver’?
You will likely need them all before you are done.
This time of year it rises later, so you have a brief moment
to form a game plan, if that is your nature.
It is not mine.
When the time is right, and not before
the sky erupts in silent resplendence -
a strip tease in reverse;
every passing second fulminating
in yet another color unimagined,
another transitional hue
that was as fleeting
as it was celestial.
And only when the sky and your imagination
have reached the saturation point
does the blaze pierce the horizon,
forcing you to look away,
pushing the eyes anywhere else
but the majesty, godlike in its refusal
to be stared at.
Palpable light washes over the morning
and roosters crow,
birds take up harmonies,
and the world itself evangelizes.
Night gathers her shadowed skirts
and sits aside once more, as she must,
for aurora shines, even through clouds,
whether we see it or not.
It is not for the faint of heart, the timid, or the love-lost.
This sort of thing, first thing in the morning
has been known to make grown men weep,
women lose control of their emotions (again)
and children take note of their surroundings.
It is yet too dark to see what I mean,
but you can spend this idle time
rubbing the sand from your eyes,
and preparing your metaphors.
How many ways do you know to say ‘quicksilver’?
You will likely need them all before you are done.
This time of year it rises later, so you have a brief moment
to form a game plan, if that is your nature.
It is not mine.
When the time is right, and not before
the sky erupts in silent resplendence -
a strip tease in reverse;
every passing second fulminating
in yet another color unimagined,
another transitional hue
that was as fleeting
as it was celestial.
And only when the sky and your imagination
have reached the saturation point
does the blaze pierce the horizon,
forcing you to look away,
pushing the eyes anywhere else
but the majesty, godlike in its refusal
to be stared at.
Palpable light washes over the morning
and roosters crow,
birds take up harmonies,
and the world itself evangelizes.
Night gathers her shadowed skirts
and sits aside once more, as she must,
for aurora shines, even through clouds,
whether we see it or not.
