Wednesday, August 22, 2012

transposed to a key more sweet

Mist, suspended
like a gasp of breath,
air caught between inhale and exhale,
lightly poised,
hovers above blades of grass and thistle spines;
whispers and wavers,
as rosy warmth renders the crisp chill
an antique remnant of the night.

The sun, disbanding residues of dark
arrives heralded by specks of gold.
Quotidian dust, translated into beauty--
lowly loam laid bare by light--
reflects his radiance.

Azure flushed with hues of rose--
the fires of sublimed atmospheres burning with His rising--
stretches of pasture shot up with gold of Ophir;
Monochromatic realm of mists slowly bows,
genuflects before gilded pigments saturating the fresh new world--
earth, through her revolution, has been re-baptized,
           this is something the eye of man has not yet seen.

No sound touches the golden field,
No lonely instrument accompanies the drama
of shadow giving way to the sun's
New world, birthed without a fanfare.
            Instead of Eucharist bells:
                       a baby's cry.

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