Sunday, December 22, 2013

Let this be the least of us

 photo Solstitium1.jpg


The sun stood still today. It did not spill itself
over an early farmer's field in gushing rays
of gold and bronze, nor rise in the vigilant
eyes of a girl set adrift in the middle of her heart.

Instead, it nailed itself to a pale shard of blue, allowed
thunderhead to pass without as much as a vaportop
glance because this was the moment it comes to be stilled.

As in every year, even the most consummated must retreat
within the flames. Let radiance confer divinity another day.
For this moment is the time of unbuilt butterflies that have not
yet fashioned wings for skies that have not yet taken hue.

 photo Solstitium2.jpg

Let this be the least of us. From this morning on, sing
sweetly that the day remains to paint your song with light
in fruiting boughs. From this morning on, promise
the mute stars that all you gather will be thrown against
the pressing dawn, poured in the honeyed breath of children
as they rouse from dreams they never share with another soul.

From this morning on, let this be the least of us.
Let each day offer less and less, as the time to offer
grows long and wide. Let this be enough to sustain
our days into the foreshortened bliss that summers
our skin an ocean away. Only then will the sun move
among the ruins again. Only then will the sun truly endure.

Joseph Gallo
December 21, 2004

 photo Solstitium3.jpg

Friday, December 20, 2013

A proven balance of temptation

 photo Birdsummon1.jpg


I would summon birds then,
from the very folds of the sky,
call them forth to do what
they will when so summoned.

Feathered things, they will
inquire with hesitance, at first,
until the lure of hunger slips
the dagger deftly in to perch.

I would summon these birds
with the siren of a feeder,
hung from the under-trellis,
a proven balance of temptation.

 photo Birdsummon2.jpg

They will fall before me for
I am a god this day, provider
of all that will sustain them,
keeper of life until the sun dies.

As dusk arrives, something else
will call them forth from my hand.
It will be silent, black, filled with
deep down and drear, like sleep.

Released, I will turn back for my
door, make lights, forage food,
sit before a meager table, lift the
weight of a world beyond myself.

Joseph Gallo
December 14, 2013

 photo Birdsummon3.jpg