Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Looking at the hour


I look at the hour,
her name is still Dawn,
clouds runneth in
and soon she will be gone.

So rich her hues,
so dark her hair,
curls and kinks that coil,
and reach out,
floating on air,
feathering on coming wind.

Her skin is like the good earth,
and fertility the day,
is before us.


I am looking at the hour.
She is noon, face warm,
flush with the light of the sun.
Her hair twisted and tangled by wind,
still drying from morning's rain.

Her eyes are soft, and she smiles at me.
There is day and dusk left.

I look at the hour, she smiles at me.


I look at the hour,
she is cold and defined.
The light is full fading,
the day has declined.
Her eyes auric,
pierce all the failures I've had,
all the things left on undone,
or cobbled and bad.

She scolds and scowls,
her cheeks drawn contempt,
I brush at my hair,
it feels so unkempt.

I look at the hour, and she looks through me,
I sip, and take comfort, in the color of tea.


I do not look at the hour, but let him pass,
cloaked easy hours.


I look at the hour, and she looks at me,
her black eyes glow ember,
and she beckons softly.
I see her roundness,
and reach to touch,
the face of soft slumber,
I now need so much.

I am looking at dreams,

And they smile at me.

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