How many mornings
does one wake up in a meadow?
I was there.
In the morning.
in the hour of the blue-black bruise dome
I had unzipped my door
avoided tripping outright into the wet grass.
I’d glanced up then.
Just a blank, awfully close to my nose.
And not a clean slate either. A poorly erased one. Smudged.
Thick pudding of night cloud touching my hair and worrying my eyes.
when Aurora had carelessly stalked through her bedroom sky-door
that’s where I was.
And I was in the light.
Picking my way through thistles far and wide.
In the company of slugs finishing their night salads.
Arguing with the late summer sun: O beloved orb, just don’t go.
(I know you will.)
(No matter what I say.)
One arm went up as I turned my feet in the sticky web of my
argument with the sun dance.
The hand on the end of the arm travelled higher.
It passed beyond the tops of a row of quiet trees
keeping sunrise from waking more tent sleepers.
And as the hand passed its little zenith
it uncovered fire.
A fire content to contain itself
in a droplet of night air that got too cool and heavy
to lift itself back up.
The whole sun
The light of this world.
Lazing in a drop of dew.
burning in water
hanging in air.
The chosen droplet broadcast its orange speech at top volume
touching everything to its west
with its eloquence and its beautiful goodbye.
The best thing it ever had to say.
In the end
the sun did climb its daily steps.
And it made a little dewfire irrelevant
with its meadow-baking statements.
Crickets sunbathed between hay stalks.
Dragonflies cruised the sky party
clacking their wings.
Sounding the bells
of the end
of every futile argument ever made.