Setting Sun
Dawn:
Over that thin, mysterious line,
so far off and yet alarmingly near
Out of that murky and muting indigo womb,
but still mantled in its maroon, aliment smear
Pressing and pricking at yonder rim
in irreverent indifference to her threshold breach
She lunged for her first gulp of breath
and grasped the world with a seagull’s screech
Morning:
Good fortune, juvenile gambol and inquisitive abandon
are woven to a pulley’s chord
That hoists with ease the blushing star
from wait and worry still unmoored
All along the steep incline and her timid march
toward finial height
She dreamed of tender love and ample life
and kissed the earth with her gentle, virgin light
Midday:
Anchored severely to the middle of the sky
early dew long run off by torrid drought
Harsh winds that wither dreams, temper desire,
scorch ambition, sow but little doubt
Her course set, charges multiplied, cares increased,
and scarcity mounting to a swelter
She labored without ceasing to move that dial
and give her wards some shade or shelter
Afternoon:
Emancipated from that confining, grinding crest
and freed to travel further round the globe
Slicing long and spear-like through the landscape
in a curious javelin probe
Undaunted resourcefulness transforming streams to
liquid gold and glades to emerald stone
She planted her luminous assets with universal scope
and reaped what her frugal hands had sown
Sunset:
Graceful and composed in a slender, ebony silhouette,
ruby-tipped fingers, and a silver crescent crown
The same soft brush now indulging edgy techniques
and an unfamiliar palette to paint the town
Offering a last exhibition of her authentic voice
before reclining in her widow’s bed
She ventured out on a final solo endeavor
and splurged on a bolder shade of red
. . . And soon, our setting sun
will be but another’s rising one.
