First light
I had not paid attention
to dawn rushing the ground
like a tortured spirit
its jarring solitude
ringing clay hills like chimes,
feeble arms outstretched,
tendrils clinging to
cold morning surfaces
climbing their way up
into night’s windows,
their twilight faces awakening
to the shock of the searing eye
climbing the edge of the horizon;
first light, like a trumpet at their walls.
The ruddy light, silent, opens
its red mouth, unfurls its scream
at the warm edge of the spectrum,
splatters clouds with blood drops,
rose petals, echoes of
sunsets spun backwards,
spilling pitchers of red wine
in its wake, then shakes its golden
mane at the mess it made,
already behind it far on the horizon
as it rises in stately adolescent yellow
© Jonathan Bohrn (2008)
Last light
Day done,
it slips below the horizon
like a turtle
in its purple shell,
a ball of stars
rolling down its surface
while it sleeps
© Jonathan Bohrn (2008) ("Lands")
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Our night under the Desert Stars
